


Sherlock

by Theluminousfisheffect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidlock, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 36,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theluminousfisheffect/pseuds/Theluminousfisheffect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of stories from all stages of Sherlock's life from kidlock to teenlock, unilock, right through until the end of season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandon

1: Abandon

When he was twelve, John Watson moved house. The whole family spent the weekend packing boxes and moving them on to the lorry, and then they walked out the door for the last time.

John was excited for his new house. He couldn't wait to move in, mostly because he would be getting a bigger bedroom, and this time he had been allowed to decorate it himself. Plus, they were moving to the country, which his dad said meant there was much more room to play. It was going to be good.

John peered eagerly out of the car window as they pulled into the drive of their new house. It was a big house, covered in dash and it wasn't attached to another one, like their old house. He loved it already.

John helped his family carry some of the lighter boxes inside until the lorry was empty and everything had been moved inside. He sighed as he stared at the boxes in his room. He really didn't want to start unpacking now.

His father smiled as he saw his son staring forlornly at the boxes. He patted John's shoulder and grinned.

'You know, you worked really hard today. Why don't you take a break and go exploring? We can unpack later.'

'Really?' John asked, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

'Yeah, go and have some fun,' his dad smiled.

'Thanks Dad!' John yelled and raced downstairs, jumping the last few steps and flying out through the front door. He hitched a right at his drive and ran back down the road they had driven up. He had seen one or two houses along this way, and he wondered if any of them had children that he could play with.

He crept up to the gate of the first house, which was a small red bungalow, with a tidy garden blooming with flowers and trees. John stretched up on to his tip-toes, craning his neck to see who lived there. From where he stood, he could see an elderly couple in the living room, watching television together.

'Let's try the next house,' John thought to himself, running further down the lane.

A little further down and round a corner was the only other house on this part of the lane. It was a big house, with black wrought iron gates and a huge lawn outside that was neatly trimmed.

John sneaked up to the gates, and peered through, wondering who lived here. He craned his neck, trying to peek inside when suddenly something smashed into his side and knocked him to the ground.

'Haha, got you, Myc -,'

John looked up to see a young boy with inquisitive blue eyes and a mop of black curls staring down at him in confusion. He was holding a toy sword to John's neck and was wearing a black pirate's hat crookedly on his head.

The confusion in the boy's eyes turned to annoyance and he hopped off John.

'You're not Mycroft,' the boy grumbled, almost as if he was annoyed with John for not being Mycroft.

'No, I'm John. I just -'

'Moved in up the road. I saw you drive past earlier,' the boy finished, turning away and walking back towards the iron gates.

'Oh,' John said. 'So what's your name?' he called after him politely.

'I'm Sherlock,' the boy replied, turning back and tilting his hat to John.

'Nice to meet you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock was glancing about, his eyes darting around as if he was searching for something.

'Are you - are you okay?' John asked unsurely.

'Hmm? Yeah, I'm just looking for Mycroft. I thought he was going to steal my treasure,' Sherlock explained, not paying much attention to John.

'Who's Mycroft?' John asked.

'My older brother. He's fourteen,' Sherlock told him.

'How old are you?' John asked, looking at the small, slight frame of the boy. He couldn't be that old.

'Seven,' Sherlock replied.

'Isn't seven a bit young for a pirate?' John joked, smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glared at John.

'No,' he snapped.

'Sorry,' John mumbled. 'I bet you make a great pirate. I like your hat,' he grinned, pointing to Sherlock's lopsided hat.

Sherlock smiled at John, his little nose wrinkling slightly as he did.

'Do you want to see my ship?' he offered.

'Yeah,' John agreed enthusiastically.

'Come on,' Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dragged him round to the back of the house.

'So where's this ship then?' John asked, staring at the empty back garden.

'Here,' Sherlock said, pointing to a tree as if it was obvious.

'This is your ship?' John asked incredulously.

'Yes,' Sherlock smiled proudly, grabbing on to a lower branch and hoisting himself up into the tree.

'Come on,' he called down as he scrambled up higher into the branches.

John slowly climbed up after Sherlock, carefully holding on to the branches for dear life. He had only climbed a little way up when he found Sherlock sitting on a branch, staring out into the distance.

'Wow,' John breathed as he looked out. You could see everything from up here. There were fields and fields of green, and a few houses dotted amongst them. There was even a wind turbine in the distance and the view went on and on until it reached up into the pale blue mountains standing proudly in the distance.

'John, hoist the sail!' Sherlock yelled, snapping John's attention back to the tree ship.

'Aye aye Captain,' John laughed and saluted Sherlock, pretending to hoist a sail up into the branches.

The boys played pirates for hours in the tree, until an older boy came out from Sherlock's house and called him in for tea.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

'Coming, Mycroft.'

John noticed how the younger boy rolled his eyes as he said his brother's name.

Sherlock turned to John and said, 'I've got to go, John. See you tomorrow?'

John smiled and nodded happily. Sherlock grinned in reply and then he reached out and grabbed a branch, shouted 'Abandon ship!' and leapt down from the tree, landing softly in the grass.

John watched as the small boy ran into his house, his curls bouncing as he went. He followed Sherlock's example and dropped from the tree. He crept out of the gate and ran back up towards his home. He couldn't wait to tell his family about his new pirate friend.


	2. Allow

2: Allow

Mycroft Holmes was in his room, studying for his upcoming O level tests. Or at least, he was attempting to. It was extremely difficult to concentrate when your nine year old little brother was scratching away at his violin next door.

'Sherlock! Keep it down!' Mycroft called in for the third time, but Sherlock continued to play as loudly as before.

If there was one upside to this, it was that Sherlock could at least play the violin. 'The whole ordeal would be considerably worse if Sherlock was playing badly,' Mycroft thought to himself.

He sighed and turned his attention back to his geography text book, but he could not concentrate while Sherlock continued to play.

'Sherlock, stop playing the violin. I'm trying to study!' Mycroft demanded, once again lifting his attention from inner city development.

'No! I'm trying to learn a new piece,' his brother's voice snapped from the other room. The violin became even louder, but now Sherlock just played random notes, getting faster and faster, just to irritate Mycroft.

'Don't make me order you,' Mycroft threatened.

'I'd like to see you try.'

Mycroft dropped his head into his hands and sighed exasperatedly. The notes slowed again and morphed back into the sweet melody that Sherlock had been playing earlier.

After a few minutes, the playing stopped and Mycroft lifted his head out of his hands and listened.

He could hear Sherlock rummaging around inside his storage space, although Mycroft had no idea what his little brother was searching for in there, but he decided to seize the opportunity.

The sixteen year old crept down the hall into Sherlock's room and lifted the violin silently from his bed. Mycroft took it back to his room and placed it on top of his wardrobe, well out of Sherlock's reach.

He sank back into his chair and began reading again. He listened very carefully as Sherlock crawled back out of his storage, waiting for the inevitable.

'Mycroft!'

Sherlock stomped down the hall and stormed into his older brother's room.

'Where is it?' he demanded, a scowl dominating his little face.

'Where is what, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked innocently.

'Don't be stupid,' Sherlock snapped. 'Where is my violin?'

'I will give it back when I have finished studying,' Mycroft reasoned calmly.

'Give it back now,' Sherlock snarled, clenching his fists at his side.

'No,' Mycroft shook his head and turned back to his book.

'Fine,' Sherlock grumbled. 'I'll find it then.'

'Very good, Sherlock,' Mycroft replied uninterestedly. 'Why don't you deduce where it is?'

'That would be far too easy,' Sherlock sneered. 'I have a better idea.'

'Which is?' Mycroft queried, still paying little attention to his brother.

'I will just tear your room apart looking for it,' Sherlock grinned proudly.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft turned around warningly.

'I wonder where it is?' Sherlock asked innocently. 'Is it in here?' He pulled the sheet off Mycroft's bed and tossed it in a heap on the floor.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft threatened.

'No,' Sherlock feigned confusion. 'Maybe in here?'

He grabbed Mycroft's school bag and tipped it upside down, scattering the contents along the floor.

'Not there either. Maybe over here,' he walked over towards Mycroft's desk.

'Sherlock, stop,' Mycroft said angrily, his eyes narrowing.

'Give it back then,' Sherlock snapped.

'Fine,' Mycroft conceded, nettled. He rose out of his seat and lifted the violin back down from his wardrobe, handing it to Sherlock.

'Will you let me play it?' Sherlock scowled mockingly at Mycroft.

'Yes, yes, I allow you to play it. Quietly,' he added.

'We'll see,' Sherlock smiled and swept out of the room.

The violin picked up again from down the hall and Mycroft sighed, sitting down again.

After several minutes, the music stopped and Mycroft listened for his little brother, but there was no noise coming from his room.

His curiosity piqued, Mycroft walked to his brother's room and pushed the door open. He found Sherlock lying upside down over the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

'I thought you wanted to play the violin?' Mycroft asked.

'I did,' Sherlock replied nonchalantly. 'And I did play it. Now I'm bored again.'

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. There was just no pleasing him.


	3. Anticipation

3: Anticipation

Sherlock had been anticipating this ever since Moriarty had let them walk free from that swimming pool. His next little game, his next distraction. Then came the text.

Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.

And the game had begun again.

It started with the trial, which Sherlock remained at home for the end of. He knew what was coming, and he didn't have to bother going to the courtroom to hear it.

'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary; crimes - which if he is found guilty - will illicit a very long custodial sentence, and yet his legal team had chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty.'

Sherlock had anticipated the verdict, John's angry call and Moriarty appearing in his flat. He knew why Moriarty was there, but Jim seemed in no rush to get to his point. But Sherlock knew where this conversation was leading. Moriarty was here to boast about the beginning of his game.

'So how are you going to do it? Burn me?' Sherlock asked, casually sipping his tea.

'Oh that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you, but did you listen?' Moriarty sang maniacally.

'It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The fall.'

And there it was. 'Finally,' Sherlock thought to himself.

'I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I owe you.'

After that, it went quiet for two months. Sherlock went about his life, solving cases, playing violin, doing what he normally did, but always, in the very depths of his mind, he was anticipating Moriarty's game. Sherlock almost yearned for it to begin. He was bored and Moriarty's last game had been thrilling. Moriarty wasn't the only one who needed a distraction from the tediousness of life.

And one case began the game he had anticipated for so long. The kidnapping of those two kids from boarding school. The fairy tale, 'Hansel and Gretel' brought to life. Well, Moriarty had referred to himself as a 'good old fashioned villian.'

But what Sherlock hadn't anticipated was the little girl screaming when she saw him. Or the cab ride afterwards and Moriarty's 'Sir Boast-a-lot' story. After that, it hadn't taken Sherlock long to figure out what Moriarty's game was. He was destroying Sherlock's reputation - that much was obvious.

'One photograph. That's his next move. Moriarty's game. First the scream, then the photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play.'

Nobody else seemed to catch on. Why couldn't they see what was right under their noses? Moriarty was playing with all of them; playing with their minds, and most people were just too stupid to resist it. But Sherlock continued to play, still trying to anticipate where Moriarty was taking this game. Where was it all going to end?

Until he figured out the answer to that question, he had no choice but to play along. He had to let Moriarty think he was winning to give Sherlock time to figure out exactly what was going on.

'I'm doing what Moriarty wants - becoming a fugitive.'

The assassin that saved him from the bus gave him another piece of the puzzle.

'He planted it when he came around...Get Sherlock...'

And the meeting with Moriarty in Kitty Riley's flat gave him another.

'Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.'

It had only been walking down the street after the encounter that Sherlock had fully understood what Moriarty's game had been all about.

'He's been sewing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty four hours,' he explained to John. 'There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's...'

'Sherlock?'

So that was what it was for. He wasn't just destroying Sherlock's name, he was planning to...

'There's something I need to do.'

'Can I help?' John had sounded slightly anxious, but Sherlock couldn't let him come. Not where he was going.

'No. On my own.'

And then Sherlock had anticipated exactly how this game would end. Moriarty was clever, but Sherlock wouldn't let him win. He just needed a little help along the way. And he knew just where to get it.

'You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you.'

Molly didn't see exactly where Sherlock was going with this. He needed to tell her, lay it out for her, explain exactly what was going on and what was going to happen.

'But you were right. I'm not okay.'

'Tell me what's wrong.' Molly really cared, didn't she?

'Molly, I think I'm going to die.' Sherlock said simply.

'What do you need?' She really did care about Sherlock.

'If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?' he asked her. Molly was smart, she would understand what he meant later. Right now, he needed to enlist her help.

'What do you need?' Molly repeated.

'You.'

Sherlock had everything in place. Now all he had to do was get Moriarty to come out. That was easily arranged with a simple text. Sherlock almost smiled as he sent a parody of Moriarty's text to him from over two months ago. The same words that had started this little game, he was now using to end it.

Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH

And then came his reply, and the final problem that both Sherlock and Jim had been waiting for began.

I'm waiting... JM

Sherlock had anticipated this entire encounter in his mind. He knew he had to let Moriarty think that he had won. He had to pretend that he hadn't figured it out. He couldn't let Moriarty know that he knew the key code was a fake.

'Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.'

Sherlock wanted to laugh as Moriarty groaned and sighed.

'No, no, no, no, no. This is too easy, this is too easy. There is no key, doofus.'  
But he stood there, feigning confusion, because the game wasn't quite over yet. No, Moriarty was just getting to that.

'Nice way to do it.'

Again, Sherlock pretended to be puzzled.

'Do it? Do what?' A brief pause. Then, 'Yes, of course. My suicide.'

And Sherlock had also anticipated Moriarty's threat. After all, what villain doesn't blackmail their nemesis when they are trying to convince them to die?

Okay, let me give you an extra little incentive. Your friends will die if you don't.'

And as Sherlock stood on the roof looking down, the final part of his plan fell into place. John got out of the taxi and Sherlock made the call that he had knew would come.

'Hello?'

'John.'

'Hey, Sherlock, you okay?'

'Turn around and walk back the way you came.'

Sherlock needed John to be exactly in the right spot. He needed to see Sherlock.

'I'm coming in.'

'Just do as I ask. Please.'

'Where?'

'Stop there.'

'Sherlock?'

'Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.'

'Oh God.'

John's reaction was exactly as Sherlock had thought it would be. Now Sherlock only had to pull off his part.

'I - I can't come down so we - we'll just have to do it like this.'

'What's going on?'

'An apology. It's all true.'

'What?'

'Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.'

'Why are you saying this?'

Because I need you to believe this. For now, at least.

'I'm a fake.'

'Sherlock -'

'The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.'

John, you have to tell everyone. You have to believe it for Moriarty's men. They have to think that I lost or they'll come after us.

'Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met you knew all about my sister, right?'

'Nobody could be that clever.'

'You could.'

Sherlock laughed scornfully.

'I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick.'

'No. All right, stop it now.'

Then John moved and Sherlock panicked a little. This had to go perfectly and John had to stay where he was. It was like a magic trick. You can't let the audience get too close, or it ruins the illusion.

'No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move.'

'All right.'

'Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please will you do this for me?'

'Do what?'

Sherlock's voice was shaky and his eyes were bleared with tears. Hopefully, John believed that he was sincerely terrified. Because John was clever. If Sherlock didn't sound like he was going to die, then John might not believe that he was dead. And he had to.

'This phone call. It's...emm...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?'

'Leave a note when?'

'Goodbye, John.'

It was time. Everything had fallen into place. Now there was only one thing left to do.

'No. Don't.'

Sherlock dropped his phone and looked down on to the street, exactly how he had pictured it.

'Sherlock!' he heard John's desperate plea from the street and he knew that he had succeeded.

And then Sherlock spread his arms and fell, just as he had anticipated.


	4. Armour

4: Armour

Fifteen year old Molly Hooper sat at her lunch table, blatantly ignoring her friends' babbling, staring across the room at Sherlock Holmes. He was seventeen, two school years ahead of her, but that didn't matter. Molly had a crush.

He was sitting alone, reading a book. He used to sit with John Watson, but John had left the school three years ago and Sherlock had never shown any interest in making new friends. So he sat alone.

His ebony curls caught the sunlight and Molly found herself wishing that she could run her hands through them. She watched his blue eyes dance across the page of his book. She adored that half smile that split his face and crinkled his nose. When he lifted his phone from his pocket and laughed gently at a text, probably from John, Molly's resolve melted.

'I'm going to see Sherlock,' she mumbled to her friends and pushed her chair back, scraping the floor as she did. Molly sauntered across the cafeteria towards him.

Sherlock did not look up as she reached his table. Molly gently cleared her throat and asked timidly, 'Do you mind if I sit here?'

Sherlock glanced up at her and his brow furrowed. His mouth scrunched into a small frown and his eyes bore into her. Molly felt embarrassed and exposed. She could feel herself blushing.

'Stop it,' she scolded herself. 'It's not as if he can read your mind.'

Although those eyes did seem very penetrating.

Sherlock seemed to shake off whatever thought he had been having. 'Go ahead,' he said, still a little confusion lingering in his tone. Most people seemed happy enough to leave him alone. He wasn't used to company arriving and asking to sit with him.

'It's Sherlock, right?' Molly asked nervously, pretending that she didn't know his name. She hoped the bluff wasn't an obvious cover up of her crush. She could feel her cheeks flushing again as she wondered just how obvious she was.

'Yeah,' Sherlock replied slowly, still looking at her strangely. 'And you are?'

'Molly. Molly Hooper. I'm a fourth year,' she grinned stupidly.

'Nice to meet you, Molly Hooper,' Sherlock smiled politely and returned his attention to his book.

Molly melted inside when he said her name. His deep voice was just so - She sighed happily, not finishing her sentence. She couldn't find the right word to do his voice justice. It was like satin.

'You're sixth year, right?' Molly enquired, taking his attention away from the book.

'Yes,' Sherlock said shortly.

Molly bit her lip and fell silent for a few seconds.

'Cool,' she said.

'I don't see how but okay,' Sherlock replied in a perplexed tone, his brow furrowing slightly again.

'So, how's school?' she asked after a few moments silence.

'Fine,' Sherlock replied bluntly.

'Okay, good...' Molly trailed off.

'Do you want something?' Sherlock asked flatly, staring through narrowed eyes at the young girl sitting opposite him.

'No, I was just...I mean...,' Molly floundered under the intense gaze from his pale eyes.

'I was just wondering...if you...'

'Would like to go for coffee sometime,' she finished in her head.

But Molly panicked and settled for asking, 'Could help me with my homework?'

'Oh,' Sherlock sighed. 'Sure. Meet me in the library after school.'

'Okay, thanks,' Molly stood up awkwardly, almost tripping over the chair leg.

'See you, Sherlock,' she turned back and waved.

'Goodbye Miss Hooper.'

Molly could hardly contain her excitement. Meeting Sherlock after school; it was practically a date. Sort of.

And Molly knew that it was the perfect excuse to talk to him.

'Spending time alone with Sherlock, I'll break down his armour one way or another. I'll make him notice me.'

And with that vow in mind, she returned to her friends, still beaming from ear to ear.


	5. Ash

5: Ash

John smelt the tobacco as soon as he opened the door to his college room. He sighed and closed the door behind him in exasperation.

'Sherlock,' he called to his room mate. 'How many times do I have to tell you? Uni rules; you can't smoke inside.'

'Not smoking,' the reply came from the desk at the other side of the room.

'I can smell it from here,' John reasoned, walking towards Sherlock whose back was still turned to John.

'I'm not smoking,' Sherlock returned in a nettled tone. 'Just because you can smell tobacco doesn't mean I am.'

'Really?' John asked, folding his arms. He didn't believe Sherlock for a second. 'Then what are you doing burning tobacco?'

'Ash, John,' Sherlock stated simply.

'I know you think that explains it, but could you break it down for those of us who can't read your mind?' John asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Sherlock sighed and turned sideways in his chair to face his roommate.

'Ash. I am burning different types of tobacco and recording differences between their ashes for identification. Do you see?' Sherlock asked bluntly, clearly irritated at having to explain the train of thought to John.

'Okay,' John said slowly, furrowing his eyebrows and shifting his stance. 'Why?' he asked confusedly, looking to Sherlock for an answer. He clearly could not find Sherlock's logic behind this experiment.

Sherlock paused and brought his hands up to his mouth, joining them together on his lips in a praying gesture.

'Because,' he replied in an uninterested voice, 'it could be useful.'

'For what?' John chuckled amusedly.

Sherlock's head snapped around and he glared at John, his nose crinkling in annoyance. The smile wiped off John's face, but he continued to stare at Sherlock, refusing to back down.

'Well?' he asked, shrugging his shoulders. Living with Sherlock meant that he was growing more and more used to moments like this, and he knew exactly how to deal with them now.

'Imagine it, John,' Sherlock started, his eyes beginning to gleam as he spoke. 'Any ash left at a crime scene could be immediately identified. Not only do you know that the criminal smokes, but you know what he smokes, allowing you to narrow down the field of suspects almost immediately. Even amongst the ones who do all smoke, and that could still be any number, you can identify who smokes the same kind of tobacco as the ash you found. It makes crime-solving even simpler again.'

Sherlock was smiling, pleased with himself, and his eyes glinted excitedly.

John decided to ignore the last comment.

'So you're going to sit here all day and make a list of the differences of tobacco ash to make crime-solving easier? You're not even a detective,' John reminded him.

'I have helped the police before,' Sherlock retorted hotly.

'One case,' John replied coolly.

'That doesn't matter. The police are out of their depth. Half of those idiots don't have the first idea about deduction,' Sherlock growled. 'They need me, John.'

'And you're going to teach them, are you?' John laughed incredulously.

'Exactly. I'm putting this on the website when it's done. Someone needs to help them.'

'Website?' John exclaimed.

'The Science of Deduction,' Sherlock smiled proudly.

John rolled his eyes derisively and Sherlock frowned at him again.

'So you're saying that you can deduce things and you're going to teach the world how.'

'I'm not teaching them, John. I'm doing it for them. Odds are, they won't understand it anyway,' Sherlock shrugged.

'Sherlock, you don't have any training or experience,' John reasoned.

'I don't need it to know that you were just with a girl who has short, blonde hair. New girlfriend already? That was quick. I can tell you that you met in her room and that you kissed, but you didn't make it any further than that. You're also planning to take her for dinner tonight, but you're worried about that essay you still have to finish,' Sherlock deduced smugly.

'How the hell?' John trailed off in amazement.

'I told you,' Sherlock smiled and turned back to his experiment.

'Number 137, Trichinopoly: dark in colour, flaky, very distinctive smell.' Sherlock typed on to a small, cherry red laptop.

'Is that my laptop?' John challenged.

'You don't mind, do you? Mine was over there,' Sherlock motioned over his shoulder to his bed, never looking up from the ash.

'It's password protected,' John blurted in shock.

'In a manner of speaking,' Sherlock told him. John could hear the smile on his voice.

'Fine, just put it back when you're done,' John sighed, grabbing his coat and wallet and heading out the door to meet his date.

When John returned to the flat, he found Sherlock poring over a file on his bed.

'Finished your monograph on tobacco ash then?' John asked good-naturedly.

'Hmm? Yes, all 243 are listed and compared, and look, it is already being put to use,' Sherlock smiled arrogantly.

'What?'

'Lestrade gave me another case to take a look at, and there was tobacco ash at the scene. It makes it fairly obvious who the killer is,' Sherlock said off-handidly.

He shot John a cocky look and John sighed, dropping his coat on his bed.

'Tobacco ash?' he mused. 'Who knew?'


	6. Band

6: Band

Sixteen year old John Watson was lying in his back garden with his eleven year old best friend, Sherlock Holmes. John had been complaining about learning the periodic table for his chemistry test, but Sherlock couldn't see the problem.

'It's simple, John. You only have to know the first twenty elements. I could name them right now,' Sherlock boasted, lying on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky.

John rolled on to his stomach to face Sherlock.

'You're on. Name them,' John challenged his friend, smiling assuredly. He could hardly remember the first ten, and he was sure Sherlock wouldn't know them. They hadn't been on his syllabus yet.

Sherlock half smiled confidently at John and began reciting.

'Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon -'

'All right, all right Einstein,' John interrupted impatiently.

'I only got to ten,' Sherlock protested. 'I have another ten to go.'

'You've already proved that you know more of it than I do,' John sighed. The kid knew more than he did. Maybe he should get Sherlock to take the test for him.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and huffed silently. He hated being cut off mid-flow, especially when someone else had actually asked for the information he was giving them.

John realised his mistake a moment too late as he took in the brooding form of his best friend lying beside him. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'I should have known better,' he thought to himself. 'Always let him finish.'

'Sorry, Sherlock,' John muttered, poking Sherlock in his side. Luckily, having been his best friend for the last four years, John knew exactly how to deal with Sherlock.

Sherlock squirmed and scowled at John, doing his best to remain angry.  
'Sherlock, I said I'm sorry,' John repeated, an evil grin spreading across his face as he poked his friend again.

Sherlock squirmed and smiled against his will as John continued to poke him.

'Come on, Sherlock, say something,' John teased, moving his hand to tickle Sherlock's side. Sherlock giggled and rolled away from John on to his stomach.

'Stop that,' he snapped, glaring at John.

'Not until you forgive me,' John smiled, grabbing Sherlock's ankle and pulling himself forward to straddle Sherlock. He tickled Sherlock mercilessly while Sherlock thrashed around giggling until his face was red and his breathy protests dissolved into helpless giggles. John relented enough to allow Sherlock to speak and asked 'Am I forgiven?'

'Fine,' Sherlock laughed. 'Now get off,' he demanded, pushing John's chest with little effect. The older boy smiled and climbed off Sherlock, choosing to lie beside him again on the grass.

The pair lay there silently, staring at the sky while Sherlock got his breath back.

The serenity of the moment was ruined as Sherlock groaned and clutched his stomach. John looked over at his friend concernedly.

'Are you okay?' he asked, watching Sherlock carefully.

'Yeah,' Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath. 'That was strange, but I'll be okay.'

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock's face contorted in pain and he clutched his stomach, moaning again.

'You are not okay, Sherlock,' John said seriously.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock said off-handidly. 'It's just -' but he was cut off by another stabbing pain in his stomach.

'That's it, I'm taking you inside,' John decided, pulling himself to his feet. He helped Sherlock up and supported him as they walked inside John's house.  
He sat Sherlock down in a chair at the kitchen table and got him a glass of water.

'Drink this,' John told him and watched as Sherlock drained the glass.

'Do you want me to call Mycroft to come and collect you?' John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grunted disgustedly.

'I know, I know, but no one is here to take you home,' John reasoned.

'I'll walk. It's just down the road,' Sherlock argued.

'You're in no condition to walk home, Sherlock,' John pointed out and Sherlock scowled at him.

'You are not calling Mycroft,' he spat viciously.

'Okay, compromise,' John conceded. 'I will walk you home.'

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly, but agreed quickly when John reached for the phone.

'We had better go now,' John said, helping Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock had only walked a few steps when his face screwed up in agony.

'I'm still walking,' he said weakly as John paused and looked back to the phone.

'Fine, okay,' John gave up and concentrated on supporting Sherlock. It was hard to be a human crutch for someone who could only just reach your shoulders. Sherlock was pretty small for his age, making this set up even more awkward, but slowly, they made it down the road to Sherlock's house, stopping a few times as pain stabbed Sherlock's stomach.

As they entered Sherlock's house, John called out for the eldest Holmes.

'Mycroft. Mycroft, it's John. I've brought Sherlock home. He's not feeling too well.'

Sherlock began to argue, but his case was weak. He was paler than usual, his forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat and he was short of breath.

Another pain seared through his abdomen and he doubled over.

John sat him down on a chair and called out for Mycroft again.

'Mycroft!'

Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking sombre as ever.

'What is it, Sherlock?' he asked his little brother, who was bent over in the chair.

'Nothing,' he grimaced, straightening himself up.

'He keeps getting stomach pains and I think he might be developing a fever,' John told Mycroft after shooting Sherlock an unimpressed look.

'He does feel very warm,' Mycroft agreed placing a hand on Sherlock's sweaty forehead. He reached up into a cupboard above them and lifted down a thermometer. He gave it to Sherlock, who reluctantly placed it under his tongue.

'38.6C,' Mycroft read. 'He is developing a fever,' he said to John.

'Sherlock, I'm going to have to take you to the hospital,' he informed him simply.

That earned Mycroft a scowl from his younger brother.

'No.'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'Sherlock.'

'No, Mycroft. You know I hate them. They reek of disinfectant, there are far too many people, most of whom I have to communicate with and they are some of the most tedious places. They won't allow you to do anything,' Sherlock whined, still holding his stomach.

'Sorry, little brother but I have to take you,' Mycroft said unsympathetically.

Sherlock glared at him.

'You've become even worse since you turned eighteen,' he sneered.

'You still have to go.'

Sherlock growled angrily and turned away from his brother and John.

'I'll go with you if you want,' John offered. 'It might make it less boring,' he added as Sherlock glanced at him uncertainly.

'Okay,' he agreed. 'Mycroft, John is coming too.'

They bundled Sherlock into the back seat of the car and John climbed in beside him.

About half way to the hospital, Sherlock demanded that Mycroft stopped the car. He clambered out and vomited. When he got back into the car, he was sweaty and shaky and John felt awful for him.

'Poor kid,' he thought to himself, knowing that showing his sympathy to Sherlock would probably just irritate him. Better not to say anything.

By the time they had arrived at the hospital and had eventually been seen to by a doctor, Sherlock's fever had risen to 39.8C and he was very weak.

He was given a bed and was diagnosed with appendicitis. The nurse told Mycroft that there was nothing they could do that night. They would have to wait until morning to perform an appendectomy.

'Can you at least give him something for the pain?' John interrupted as Sherlock grimaced again. John was not really supposed to be listening, but he couldn't watch Sherlock in any more pain.

'He's very protective of his little brother,' Mycroft smiled politely at the nurse.

John's brow furrowed in confusion and he opened his mouth to correct Mycroft, but Sherlock tapped his arm and whispered, 'Only family is allowed in at this stage. Mycroft has to pretend that you are also our brother for you to be allowed to stay.'

John smiled in understanding and gives a tiny nod to Sherlock.

Two days later, John was finally allowed to see Sherlock again. He had the appendectomy the previous day, and he should be allowed out of hospital the next day, as long as there were no complications.

When he walked in, the eleven year old was staring blankly at the ceiling, ignoring his older brother completely. Mycroft noticed John and stood up.

'Sherlock, someone is here to see you,' he stated before walking out of the ward to leave the best friends in peace.

Sherlock did not move as John sat in the chair Mycroft had just left. He did not react at all until John spoke, breaking the silence.

'Hey, Sherlock.'

Sherlock blinked and snapped his attention down from the ceiling. His eyes fell on John and he sighed in what seemed to be relief.

'John, thank God. Finally they let one interesting person in. So far my only visitors have been Mycroft, my parents, a doctor and a few nurses, and his parents,' Sherlock said, turning his attention to a little boy in the next bed.

'His parents? That bad, huh?' John laughed, knowing that Sherlock would have hated having to converse with the strangers.

'Hi sweetie, what's your name? This is our son, Billy,' Sherlock mocked in a high-pitched voice. 'Poor Billy isn't feeling too well, are you? Tell Sherlock what's wrong with you. Are you feeling poorly too, sweetie? You don't look too peachy, poor thing. Of course I'm not well,' he sneered angrily, returning to his own voice. 'Why else would I be here? People ask such stupid questions, John,' Sherlock shook his head as if he pitied humanity for having to put up with these people.

'So aside from all the people who are only trying to be nice,' John said pointedly, 'has it really been that bad?'

'This stupid wristband keeps cutting into me,' Sherlock complained, tugging it away from his left wrist. 'Why do I need it anyway?'

'Identification,' John informed him, although he was sure Sherlock already knew this and was just trying to prove a point.

'And I'll have a scar,' Sherlock added.

John rolled his eyes.

'I bet the nurses have lots of fun listening to you complain all day.'

'I save most of it for Mycroft,' Sherlock shrugged. 'I have to find some way to have fun in here.'


	7. Bail

7: Bail

Mycroft rolled his eyes as his phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and answered it. A slightly nervous sounding male spoke.

'Mycroft Holmes?'

'Speaking,' Mycroft replied importantly.

'This is London police department calling, sir. It's about your little brother, Sherlock Holmes.'

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'What has he done now?' Mycroft asked imperviously.

'He's been arrested for possession of class A drugs,' the man replied carefully. 'He refused to provide a name for us to call, but your name was on his file, sir.'

'I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you,' Mycroft said coolly and hung up his phone. He picked up his coat in silence, wondering exactly when his twenty nine year old brother was going to grow up and act his age.

Mycroft shook his head at the thought. This was Sherlock, after all. He was never going to be normal.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was standing outside Sherlock's cell, waiting to collect his brother.

A prison guard unlocked the door and called inside to Sherlock.

'Sherlock Holmes, your bail has been paid. You're free to go.'

Listlessly, Sherlock dragged himself out of the cell, glaring at the man who was releasing him. His eyes narrowed even more as they fell on Mycroft.

'I'd rather stay in the cell,' he growled, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, shooting daggers in his brother's direction.

One of the guards came and handed Sherlock back his phone and his coat. As soon as it was back in his possession, Sherlock pulled his coat on and turned his collar up. He checked his phone quickly before replacing it in his pocket.

'Come along, Sherlock,' Mycroft said as if he was a parent talking to a child.

Sherlock chuckled lightly, still scowling and shook his head.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said warningly.

'I will not go with you,' Sherlock snapped harshly, pushing past his brother.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. 'Thank you,' he said to the officers, who nodded politely in reply.

'Just doing our job,' one of them smiled.

'Now it's time to do mine,' Mycroft thought, turning and striding after Sherlock, who had already reached the doors.

'What exactly were you doing with drugs, Sherlock?' Mycroft called after his little brother. Sherlock paused, looking out into space and said nothing.

'This could take some coaxing,' Mycroft thought exasperatedly. He repeated his question emphatically.

'Sherlock, what were you doing with drugs?'

'Don't be stupid,' Sherlock barked. 'You know exactly what I was going to do.'

'Why?'

Sherlock shot his elder brother a look of disgust and tutted disappointedly.

'Why?' Mycroft repeated undeterred.

'Don't pretend you're interested, Mycroft. It's not your forte,' Sherlock replied coolly.

'Why?' Mycroft asked again pointedly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he scowled.

'Because I am bored.'

'Bored?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow in minor surprise.

'Bored, unstimulated, my mind is tearing itself to pieces,' Sherlock raved. 'Everything is tedious, people are boring and irritating,' Sherlock pulled a disgusted face. 'I needed something to stop my mind from rotting, becoming placid like all theirs. I needed stimulation and that is where I could get it,' Sherlock explained angrily, still scowling.

'You would get addicted. They would rot your mind too, Mycroft retorted.

'I'm not an idiot, Mycroft,' Sherlock snapped hotly. 'I was just taking a little to stimulate my brain, not hallucinogenics or any of the others that ordinary people use to feel good. I was not going to get addicted.'

'You can't know that, Sherlock,' Mycroft told him angrily.

Sherlock chuckled darkly and shook his head.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft warned.

'Just leave me alone,' Sherlock span around and snarled at his brother venomously.

'Sherlock Holmes, you cannot start taking drugs. They will rot your mind and you will get addicted. Now, don't be an idiot,' Mycroft snarled through gritted teeth. Sometimes, this was the only way to get Sherlock to pay attention.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and looked up and down Mycroft with a blank expression.

'Now,' Mycroft said, calming his tone and straightening out his jacket, 'Why don't you come with me and we can get lunch?'

'I'm not hungry,' Sherlock said bluntly.

'You have to eat, Sherlock,' Mycroft reminded him exasperatedly.

'How is that diet going, brother?' Sherlock asked, a smug smirk spreading across his face.

'Fine, thank you,' Mycroft replied in a strained voice. 'Are you coming or not?'

'Why would I have lunch if I'm not hungry?' Sherlock asked him, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock's phone beeped in his pocket.

He removed it and a smile spread across his face as he read the text.

'It's Lestrade,' he told Mycroft. 'He has a case for me. Looks like I won't need your stimulating conversation after all,' Sherlock sneered sarcastically. 'Enjoy lunch, Mycroft,' he smirked and walked off, hailing a taxi.

Mycroft shook his head as he watched his little brother leave. Once he was out of sight, Mycroft got into his own car, knowing that this wouldn't be the last time this happened.


	8. Bargain

8: Bargain

John sometimes found himself wondering exactly how Sherlock had become a consulting detective. He supposed he didn't know the answer because he never asked. He was usually too busy just being amazed at what Sherlock did and if he was honest, he couldn't see Sherlock ever doing anything else, so he never questioned when Sherlock had started. He just imagined that Sherlock had always been solving cases and criticising the police force. That changed however during the case that John had dubbed 'The Great Game' - Sherlock's first real confrontation with Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty had sent Sherlock a pair of trainers. While Sherlock was examining them he had explained to John that they belonged to a young boy, Carl Powers. He told John that was where he started. He hadn't said much else about it at the time, but later after the case on a particularly quiet evening in Baker Street, the thought popped back into John's mind and he asked Sherlock about it again.

'So you said Carl Powers was where you started?' John asked the figure draped over the sofa. Sherlock was staring listlessly at the ceiling, his mop of black curls surrounding his head like a fluffy halo.

'Yes,' Sherlock confirmed, never moving to look at John as he spoke.

'So he was your first real case?' John pressed, wanting to hear the story but knowing that he would have to drag every detail out of his flatmate.

'No, not exactly,' Sherlock deliberated. 'It was the case that made me realise that the police were totally incompetent and out of their depth.'

'So he wasn't your first case then?' John asked, a little puzzled.

'Technically, I didn't actually work the case at the time. I noticed it in the newspaper and was bothered by the fact that his shoes were missing,' Sherlock verified.

'Yeah, you said that in the cab,' John said thoughtfully.

'But no one would listen to a nineteen year old,' Sherlock shrugged. 'They wrote the case off as accidental death, but that was the case that made me realise that the police needed help.'

'So Carl was your inspiration then?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged complacently.

'Even after it was closed, I tried to convince the police to look for his shoes, but they wouldn't listen. It was really the next case that was my beginning as a consulting detective,' he smiled.

'What was your first case then?' John asked. He was curious to know now that they had begun this conversation.

'Mark Rose. The police thought it was the brother, but it was obvious that he was innocent,' Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully.

'And you told them that, did you?' John asked, smiling as he imagined a nineteen year old Sherlock arrogantly telling the police that they were wrong.

'Of course but they refused to believe me again,' Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. 'Except for one. Detective Inspector Morris. I'm still not quite sure if he was just taking pity on me or if he really believed me, but he said he would make a bargain with me. He told me to show him some proof of my theory and he would take it to the investigation for me.'

'And you had evidence?' John asked, not really surprised at all.

'He got me into the morgue and I proved it to him. The police thought that the bruises that had formed on the body were caused by the brother because he fought with Mark a few hours before he died. But I was able to prove that the bruises had only been inflicted about twenty minutes before his death and the brother had a solid alibi for that time. I showed Morris that it was glaringly obvious that it was the cousin instead. They had been fighting over money,' Sherlock sighed, bored by the trivialness of the argument.

'And Morris kept his side of the bargain and they arrested the cousin. Morris had been so impressed that he called me in for the next case and I never left afterwards. It was far more interesting than anything I had been doing previously and there was no shortage of cases that the police needed assistance in,' Sherlock said unimpressed.

'And that was it?' John asked incredulously. 'They just let a nineteen year old into all their cases? No matter how brilliant you were, they must have had some reservations at least,' he reasoned.

'Morris kept me secret for a while,' Sherlock agreed. 'He brought me copies of case files to my house and I gave him evidence and theories, or told him what to look for or what I needed to see. Then he brought the evidence to the police, but each time he told them it was me that was solving the case until one day he told me to just turn up at the crime scene.'

'And how did that work out?' John asked, laughing slightly at the thought of Sherlock materialising one day.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

'The police weren't too happy with Morris, but he made them show me the body anyway. They were much more agreeable after I told them what I could deduce about the victim,' he chuckled smugly.

John giggled. 'So you're a detective - consulting detective,' he corrected himself, 'because one man took pity on you?'

Sherlock bristled a little in his seat. 'I'd like to think my deductions were the main reason,' he retorted, nettled.

'Well yeah,' John agreed quickly. Sherlock was already bored, he didn't want to add irritated to that list. Bored alone was dangerous enough.

'So Carl Powers and a bargain was all it took?' John smiled thoughtfully.

Sherlock grinned. 'And a lot of boredom on my part, but essentially yes, that was what it took to make the world's only consulting detective.'


	9. Beauty

9: Beauty

Sherlock sank further down into his chair, toying with his violin bow. He held the violin out over the arm of his chair; it hovered a few inches above the wooden floor. He sighed exasperatedly - he was bored. Extremely bored. John had gone out to a pub with some of his friends from his old rugby club, leaving Sherlock home alone with no case and nothing to do.

It was getting late, by now it was early morning but he wasn't ready to sleep. Even with no case to occupy his mind, Sherlock's mind was still wired. He wouldn't sleep even if he tried, so why waste time trying?

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he reached a hand in to pull it out. It was a text from John, which was unexpected.

Sherlock, come down here. We need you for something.

Sherlock looked up into the distance, his brows knotting together. What could John need him for in a pub?

Are you trying to get me out of the house? 

Sherlock typed back quickly and set the phone down on the arm of his chair, waiting for the reply.

Just get down here. 

John sent back a few minutes later.

Sherlock stared at his phone, wondering whether he should go or not. He didn't want to join John with his rugby friends, but then again, he had nothing better to do. He decided to go, texted a brief answer, flipped his phone and replaced it in his pocket. He jumped out of his chair and pulled his coat on, sweeping out of the door.

In the street below, he hailed a taxi and gave the address of the pub to the driver. He stared out of the window, watching the city pass by, lit only by the orange glow of the street lamps. He could see people stumbling drunkenly out of clubs and bars, clutching on to each other for support, women carrying their high heels to rest their tired feet, a few people lying against a wall, fighting the urge to vomit.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the pub, Sherlock noticed that John was standing outside, leaning against the wall, his eyes searching the streets. He paid the driver and climbed out, heading towards John.

'Sherlock!' John yelled drunkenly, staggering away from the wall.

'You're drunk, John,' Sherlock stated, his eyes narrowing in accusation.

'Maybe a little,' he slurred, smiling and holding his finger and thumb up with a small gap between them to illustrate how drunk he was.

'Come on, I was waiting to take you in.'

'I'm much more capable of walking into the bar unaided than you are at the moment, John.'

'S'pose,' John sniffed. 'Oh, hold on,' he said, stopping in his tracks.

'What?' Sherlock asked, turning back to face John. He could smell the alcohol on his breath from here and he wrinkled his nose at the smell.

'Justin wants to know what your hair feels like. He said it looked fluffy in the newspaper,' John explained.

'You brought me all the way down here for that?' Sherlock growled, fixing a sour look at John.

'We couldn't answer it without you,' John shrugged.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. 'I'm going home,' Sherlock said, turning to walk back to the road to hail another taxi.

'No, wait, they're coming out now instead. It'll only take a second,' John protested, grabbing Sherlock's wrist.

'John, let go!' Sherlock snarled, scowling as a group of men each as drunk as John, some possibly worse, stumbled out, shouting and laughing and made their way towards them.

'Let go!' Sherlock growled, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his hand from his own thin wrist.

'Hey, get off John!' one of the men with light blonde hair ordered, putting a hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the man's hand off his chest, seemingly aggravating the men.

The blonde man punched Sherlock in the face before John could stop him.

'Woah, hey guys! Stop! That's Sherlock! He wasn't gonna hurt me!' John yelled, pushing his way in between the man and Sherlock.

'Oh shit. Sorry mate,' the blonde man slurred, holding out a hand in apology. Sherlock glared at him furiously.

'Maybe we should go home, Sherlock,' John agreed. 'See you later guys.'

The next day, Sherlock woke up with a dark circle under his left eye. John winced as he walked into their living room and apologised again.

'Listen, I'm sorry about Gary. He was just looking out for me.'

'No need to apologise, John. Hurry up; Lestrade texted. There's a body in Juniper Street he wants me to take a look at.'

They rode in silence to the crime scene and Sherlock led the way inside when they arrived.

Lestrade was in the room with the body and Anderson was already bent over the dead man, examining him.

They both looked up as Sherlock entered the room. Lestrade whistled lowly.

'That's a beauty, Sherlock.'

Anderson laughed once; a cold, cruel sneer.

'Did John finally have enough of you? I would have done it much sooner,' he added.

'John did not do it and I would love to see you try,' Sherlock replied icily, glaring at Anderson.

'One of my mates was a bit drunk and hit him. It wasn't Sherlock's fault,' John explained sheepishly as he walked in.

'That's hard to believe,' Anderson muttered under his breath.

Sherlock clenched his jaw silently.

'Are we just going to stand around all day and talk about my eye or would you like me to solve this murder for you?' he asked angrily.

Lestrade held his hands up defensively. 'Be my guest.'


	10. Beckon

10: Beckon

At the age of twenty-one, John was in his fourth year at university and he had settled in well in his time there. He never really suffered from homesickness - he missed it now and again but on the whole, he rarely stopped to think about it in his hectic student life. The thing he missed most when he did pause to reflect on the matter was his best friend, Sherlock. Most people seemed to find it strange that John's best friend was five years younger than him, but anyone who knew the sixteen year old found it even more puzzling that he had a best friend - the age difference hardly registered on them.

So John was pleasantly surprised one afternoon when his phone buzzed on the table beside him. He dropped his pen happily and stretched, glad for any excuse to interrupt the long passage he had been reading about glaucoma. He had read the last sentence three times and had been paying so little attention to the words that he still didn't know what the sentence said. He opened the message and smiled as the familiar wave of nostalgia washed over him. It read:

'John, can I come over tonight? Mycroft is being even more infuriatingly annoying than usual and if I don't get out of here soon, I may have a new cadaver for you to practise on. SH.'

John replied quickly:

'Of course you can, Sherlock. Come as soon as you can - I don't want to be practising on Mycroft, thanks. I've already got my cadaver. JW.'

He placed the phone down again and looked back to the passage.

"No," he shook his head, snapped the textbook shut and got up from the table, tucking the book safely under his arm.

About half an hour later, there was a knock at John's door. He opened it to find a surly Sherlock glowering at the door. John smiled and took a step aside to let Sherlock in.

"Mycroft drove you over then?" John asked. Sherlock growled.

"Twenty eight minutes trapped in a small, metal container with him," he sighed, flopping exasperatedly onto the red leather sofa.

"That bad, huh?"

"Do you have to ask?" Sherlock replied dryly, raising an eyebrow questioningly with a minuscule shrug of his shoulders.

"No, I don't," John smiled cheerily, sitting down on the sofa beside Sherlock. "So how's school, kid?"

"Awful."

'It was amazing how much feeling Sherlock could put behind two syllables,' John thought as Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'He'd be a fantastic actor if he ever felt so inclined.'

John had been about to ask was there a particular reason for the awfulness of school or was it still the usual, 'It's boring and filled with idiotic people that I'm forced to socialise with,' but he didn't get the chance. His front door swung open and his flatmate waltzed in.

"Hey, John, I got us some - Sherlock!" Michael exclaimed, pointing to the boy on the sofa, his arms ladened with plastic bags from the local shop. "You brought him for the party. Good man," he said to John, dropping the bags in the kitchen.

Sherlock shot John an inquisitive look. 'Party?' it said. 'You didn't say there was a party.'

John replied with a tiny shrug that said 'This is news to me too.'

"What party, Mike?" John asked.

"Ours," he replied. "We're having people over tonight."

"Since when?" John asked confusedly. He hadn't been told this.

"I'd say since about forty minutes ago," Sherlock answered casually. He looked to Michael. "Fifteen minutes to the shop, about ten to buy all that," he gestured to the bags, "and fifteen back again?"

"Kid got it," he smiled coyly.

"Mike, we can't have a party. I've got Sherlock here."

"So?"

"He can't drink," John said, trying to at least appear responsible.

"Oh come on. He's what? Seventeen?" Michael blew it off.

"Sixteen," Sherlock corrected.

Michael looked him over. "Jeez, you're tall for sixteen," he noticed.

"You're small for twenty-one," Sherlock countered, almost childishly.

"See? He'll be fine," he told John, taking no offence at Sherlock's comment. "Lighten up, John, you aren't his mum."

"Escaping Mycroft to end up at a uni party," Sherlock said. He leaned back in the chair and sighed heavily. "Great," his voice dripped with sarcasm.

'Yeah, definitely an actor,' John thought to himself.

Mike said it would only be a small party; a few people, a few drinks, a little music. Of course, John knew what that meant but every argument he offered was flapped away by Michael. Then the first guests arrived and John couldn't really turn them away.

And they kept arriving and arriving until he was sure that half of the university had crammed themselves into their cramped flat.

Sherlock had moved to a wooden chair in the corner to avoid the worst of the drunken clamour while John was passed between all the groups of people.

"Hey, John," some girls from his year called, waving him over. He waved and pushed his way over to them.

"Who's the kid in the corner?" the blonde one, Megan, asked before John had even said hello. He looked over to where Sherlock sat, resting his head on his hand, leaning an elbow on the table - the picture of boredom.

"That's Sherlock," John told them.

"Who's he here with?" Alex asked him, watching Sherlock sympathetically.

"He came to visit me. He's my best friend," John explained fondly.

"Poor kid's probably shy around all these Uni students," Megan thought aloud.

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes is definitely not shy," he said emphatically.

"Call him over then!" Tasha ordered, peering past John to the teenager.

John turned and caught Sherlock's attention, beckoning him over to the group. He watched John and the girls apprehensively for a moment and then dragged himself from the chair and trudged towards them with great effort, like his limbs were made from stone and were weighing him down.

John introduced them all.

"Sherlock, this is Megan, Alex and Tasha," he pointed to each girl as he said her name. "Girls, this is Sherlock."

"Hi," they chorused, trying to ease Sherlock.

"Hello," he smiled uneasily back.

"Aww, John, he is so cute!" Alex cooed. "I just want to fluff his curls," she said, reaching out a hand and ruffling Sherlock's hair. He stiffened and moved his head subtly away, rearranging his scowl into a strained smile as John poked him in the back.

"Alex, you're making him uncomfortable," Tasha scolded, nudging her friend with her elbow.

"I had to do it!" she protested but turned and smiled apologetically at Sherlock. "Sorry."

He nodded in acknowledgment of her apology but said nothing.

"So, Sherlie, what age are you?" Megan asked, nonchalantly leaning back into the sofa.

"Sherlock," he corrected and John interrupted in case he said anything less pleasant.

"He's sixteen," he interjected quickly.

"Sixteen and doesn't like Sherlie. Got it. I assume 'Sher' and 'Lock' are off the table too?" she inquired playfully.

"If you wouldn't mind," he half smiled politely in return with a dry undertone.

"He's so polite. He's a little gentleman," Alex crowed, looking as if she might explode in her excitement.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Sherlock?" Tasha asked.

"Not really my area."

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

"Again, not really my area," Sherlock said with a slight grimace.

"He really is sweet sixteen and never been kissed!" Alex squealed in delight. "This is too cute!"

"Sounds like Alex'll fix that soon enough," Megan joked.

"Yeah, go on, Alex, give him a kiss already," Tasha joined in.

"I don't think that's a great idea," John cut in but Alex was already reaching her arms out towards Sherlock.

"Come here, sweetie. Just a little kiss."

Sherlock took a small step back and glanced awkwardly at John for help.

"Aww, it's okay. Just a little kiss. How about on the cheek?" Alex babbled, puckering her lips.

"That's okay," Sherlock said and John guided Alex back into her seat.

"See you later, guys," John said, pushing Sherlock away from the girls.

"Aww," they moaned. "Bye Sherlock," they waved and Alex winked cheekily at him.

"Sorry about that," John muttered as he steered Sherlock through the crowd.

"It still has to be better than being at home with Mycroft," he joked and John chuckled.


	11. Bend

11: Bend

John Watson considered himself a patient man. He could wait for things without getting too excited, he could keep his calm, stay cool, not get worked up over things. The only thing that seemed to irritate him from time to time was his flatmate (and those bloody chip and pin machines, but that's another story). But even at that, he stuck more than most people would. John would just ignore Sherlock or sigh, or maybe at a push, tell Sherlock off a little, but he considered himself very patient with the consulting detective. Except one day when Sherlock pushed him further than usual.

It all started with a text. Sherlock was out finding information for a case - looking up the homeless network, John assumed. He sat in the flat, typing up the notes for his latest blog entry when his phone beeped beside him. He rolled his eyes as he read the text from his flatmate.

We're out of milk. SH

John texted back quickly.

You're out and I'm busy. Pick some up on your way home. JW

Then a few seconds later:

I'm busy. You get it. SH

John sighed.

Sherlock, you're already out. Just get it on your way home. I'm not going out to buy milk now. JW

He didn't get an answer, so he assumed that Sherlock was going to buy some as he came home. It would only take two minutes for him to walk into the shop anyway.

Over two hours later, Sherlock swept back into the flat carrying a sports bag that was slung sloppily over his left shoulder. He went straight to the kitchen and dropped it on the table.

"Did you get the milk?" John asked casually, never pausing to look up as Sherlock floated past.

"No," he said.

"Why not?" John said, looking up at Sherlock in mild annoyance. It was the one thing he had asked him to do.

Sherlock shrugged. "I told you to get it. I was busy."

"So am I! You couldn't stop off and buy some on the way home?" John asked. Then he sighed because Sherlock took no notice. "Never mind, it's not that urgent anyway."

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa, searching the Internet on his phone. John began to type again, throwing furtive glances at the bag on the kitchen table until his curiosity got the better of him.

"What's in the bag?" he asked his flatmate nonchalantly.

"A head."

"Another one?" John exclaimed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied dryly still typing on his phone.

"Get it off the table," John ordered.

"Why?"

"It's unhygienic. We have to eat there."

"We never eat there," Sherlock reasoned.

John couldn't argue that point but he persevered anyway.

"Just get it off the table."

"It's fine. It won't do any harm," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

John sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Fine, I'll move it," he said, getting up and heading towards the kitchen table. It was cluttered with books and notes, the microscope, Petri dishes, vials, beakers filled with coloured liquids and an unmarked bottle of powder, some of which was spilled across the table. Obviously another of Sherlock's experiments.

"John, don't touch anything," Sherlock called warningly after him.

The doctor ignored him and lifted the bag from the table. As he lifted it, it knocked one of the coloured beakers over and the liquid ran across the table, reacting with powder lying on it.

At the clink of the glass hitting the table, Sherlock's head snapped up from his phone and he raced to the kitchen. He grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him backwards gently, keeping his eyes trained on the reaction occurring on the table.

"I told you not to touch anything," he said. "Just stay back for a minute."

"Sherlock! What's going on?" John asked, unable to tear his gaze from the table in shock.

"Chemical reaction. You just created a moderate acidic reaction," the detective explained.

"Wait. Acid?" John exclaimed, turning to face Sherlock.

He nodded.

"Sherlock! Why did you have that out on the table?" John yelled.

"I told you not to touch it," Sherlock snapped back. "I can neutralise it anyway once it stops fizzing like that," he added, taking another beaker of liquid and pouring it over the mixture already spilled across the table.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John let out, looking at the burn marks that were left on the table. Mrs Hudson was not going to be happy.  
"I told you not to touch it," Sherlock repeated, annoyance flourishing in his tone.

"Anything that might explode or burn a hole through our table shouldn't be on it in the first place," John countered angrily.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and recited the same excuse he always gave.

"It was an experiment," he drawled again, dropping onto the sofa and shutting his eyes, placing his fingertips together under his chin as if he was praying serenely.

"Sherlock, you can't just -" John cut himself off, inhaling deeply as he felt his anger rising.

"Never mind," he shook his head, exhaling and releasing his annoyance as he did so, sitting back down at the table in the living room to finish the blog entry.

It was silent for fifteen minutes, until Sherlock silently rolled off the sofa and stalked out of the room. About seven minutes later, he came back into the room in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown.

John barely registered it, his eyes only flickering to the clock on his laptop as he saw the blue swirl swish into the room again.

It was late. One am already. John had been working longer than he had thought. He stretched in his chair, arching his back, the tiredness finally catching up with him. He stifled a yawn. He stared at the laptop, his vision suddenly blurry because of his tired eyes. It was time to hit the hay.

"Night, Sherlock," John mumbled, standing up and stretching again.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, barely paying attention to John.

John had only got as far as the end of the hall when he heard the bang. He jumped and swore under his breath. Then he stomped back into the living room, his anger returning again.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted furiously, glaring at the consulting detective who was lounging in his armchair, pointing a gun at the wall.

"Bored," Sherlock muttered.

"No! We are not doing this again!" John yelled, holding his hand out for the gun.

Sherlock's eyes shot up to the doctor and flashed a darker shade of icy blue. He shot another bullet into the wall defiantly and then emptied the rest of the round into the plaster as if he was purposely doing it just to test John.

Then he smiled darkly and handed the gun to the blond man.

John just glared at him and took the gun with him as he went to bed.

He put the gun in his dresser and got himself ready for bed. He climbed in under the duvet and drifted off quickly - he was exhausted.

Only a few hours later - it only felt like minutes to John - he opened his eyes sleepily, thinking that he was still dreaming for a moment as his brain attempted to break through the misty haze of sleep. He could hear music drifting up from downstairs and it took him longer than usual to piece it together.

"Sherlock," John groaned, rubbing his eyes exasperatedly and rolling out of bed. He trudged downstairs, his vision still bleary as he entered the living room to find Sherlock looking out of the window, his back to John, running his bow masterfully back and forth across his violin, creating a harsh, angry melody that echoed through the flat.

John felt his anger rising again. Normally, he didn't get this annoyed over all of these things, but he was tired and Sherlock had been pushing him all day, piling up all the little annoyances.

"Sherlock, for God's sake! It's 3am!" John shouted.

Sherlock continued to play as if John had never spoken.

"Jesus, you've been driving me around the bend all bloody day! Just stop and go to bed!" he yelled and this time, Sherlock did stop, hearing a the new tone of anger in John's voice. This wasn't his usual "Sherlock, please stop," tone. No, this was real annoyance.

Without a word, Sherlock replaced the violin back in the case.

"Thank you," John muttered, heading back up to bed again. At least now he might get some sleep tonight.


	12. Bind

12: Bind

Little eight year old Sherlock was sitting in his bedroom with his back pressed against the wooden door, hugging his knees to his chest.  
Mycroft was knocking on the door from the other side, demanding entry.

"Sherlock let me in!"

"No!" Sherlock yelled, burying his head into his arms.

"Sherlock," his brother began in an exasperated tone.

"No! Go away!" came the muffled reply.

"Just tell me what happened," Mycroft said gently, softening a little.

"Just leave me alone!"

"Do you want me to ask if John can come over?" he tried, knowing that his strange younger brother had seemed to have developed a liking for the little blond boy down the road. In fact, John was the only friend Sherlock had ever had.

"I want you to leave me alone!" Sherlock snapped furiously.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock could be very difficult when he wanted to be.

He would have to resort to drastic measures.

Mycroft groaned and walked towards the next room down the hall. Sherlock had discovered, through his usual curiosity, that there was a hole in the wall between the storage space in that room and the storage in Sherlock's own bedroom. He had used it many times, clambering between the rooms to avoid people or just to explore when he was bored. Mycroft remembered the first time Sherlock's tiny head had peeked through the storage door in the computer room, even though Mycroft had just heard him walk into his own bedroom.

Now he was going to have to sink to the undignified level of clambering through the small hole between the two rooms.

Sherlock could hear his older brother scrambling through the hole but he refused to move to try and block Mycroft's passage to his room. He stayed where he was with his head in his knees, listening but never moving a muscle as Mycroft climbed into his room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started and paused, watching his brother. He didn't really know what to say or do and it was making him slightly uncomfortable.  
Sherlock showed no signs of responding and Mycroft rolled his eyes and exhaled silently. He bent down beside the young boy.

"What happened?" he asked the huddled figure softly.

"I told you to go away," Sherlock lifted his head and said weakly.

"Yes, but did you think I would?" Mycroft smiled lightly.

"I had hoped," Sherlock said dryly so that Mycroft wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking or not.

"What happened?" Mycroft tried again.

"Why are you asking? I'm sure you already know," Sherlock said tiredly.

"Why don't you tell me anyway?" Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock sighed and dropped his head to rest his chin on his knees. He looked away from Mycroft.

"The kids in my class called me a freak again and then one of them took my pencil case and threw it at me. Then some of the boys grabbed my jumper and pushed me to the ground and they started kicking and punching me," he told with a blank face. There was no intonation to his voice at all - it was like listening to a robot.

"Who bandaged you up?" Mycroft asked, catching a glimpse of the white bandage on Sherlock's wrist.

"The school nurse. She did an awful job," Sherlock scowled at the loose end of the bandage that was dangling out from underneath his jumper.

"Here, let me." Mycroft carefully pushed back Sherlock's sleeve and unwound the bandage. He made Sherlock twirl the wrist to test if it was broken or sprained. Sherlock scowled but complied.

"It's just a little sore, Mycroft. It's not sprained," he emphasised.

"Just wear the bandage for a day or two," Mycroft ordered, expertly binding the wrist back up again.

He led Sherlock to the bathroom and washed the cuts on his knees.

He wanted to check for bruised ribs but Sherlock refused to let him.

"Just leave it, Mycroft!" he snapped.

"I've had much worse," he added, glaring darkly.

"I know," Mycroft muttered sadly.

Sherlock sighed and glanced down to his shoes. He never cried when this happened and in his own way, besides the physical pain of it, Sherlock didn't mind and Mycroft knew it. He knew that Sherlock really didn't care about the name calling and he admired his little brother for that. It made life a little easier for him anyway.

"Do you want a biscuit?" Mycroft offered, knowing it was the kind of thing grown-ups gave to children to cheer them up, but Sherlock wasn't sad and he didn't react the way most other children would.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm going to play violin," he said and walked back down the hall towards his room.

A few seconds later, a beautiful melody was echoing through the house and Mycroft smiled and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was definitely not an ordinary child.


	13. Blue

13: Blue

Sherlock Holmes was only three years old when he had his first experience of detective work. Nothing like what he would go on to do in the future, but at the time, he thought it was fantastic.

The little curly haired toddler had toddled into Mycroft's room, looking for something to do. He wanted his brother to play with him - he was bored playing on his own and none of the toys were stimulating enough. The action figures were all too stiff and unrealistic, his toy ship wouldn't float in the little bucket of water, his paints were all used and the toy keyboard kept making strangled sounds as if it was dying.

"My," Sherlock called in his tiny voice. "My!"

He pushed open his brother's door and barged into his room. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, reading a book on British Parliament in the 1840s. It was quite an advanced text for a ten year old, but he was fascinated by this sort of thing and he wanted to learn as much as he could about the government.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled in a bubbly voice and bounced over to the desk.

"Not now Sherlock," Mycroft replied uninterestedly without raising his head from the book.

"I'm bored," Sherlock whined, grabbing the arm of Mycroft's chair and swinging himself.

"So entertain yourself," his brother said uncaringly. "Without breaking my chair," he added, glaring harshly at the toddler swinging on the arm.

"But everything's boring," Sherlock drawled, still swinging. "Play with me," he demanded, his baby blue eyes sparkling in excitement.

"No, Sherlock. I'm reading," Mycroft told him patronisingly, dropping his nose back into the book to illustrate his point.

"But Mycroft," Sherlock whined again, pouting and dropping his arms to his sides disappointedly.

"No."

The pout immediately changed into a dark scowl and his little blue eyes flashed icily.

"Fine," snapped Sherlock, his fists clenching defiantly at his side. "I don't need you to play with me."

Mycroft smiled wryly into the book.

"I thought you wanted me to play with you?" he asked, chuckling.

"Shut up," he sulked, petulantly stropping out of the room. He clenched his teeth angrily. He didn't need stupid Mycroft anyway. He would find something much better to do than play with his older brother.

But Sherlock soon discovered that there was nothing of interest downstairs. He faced the same dilemma he had faced before he went in search of Mycroft. He still had nothing to do, nothing to cure his boredom.

He sighed exasperatedly and dropped to the floor, splaying his arms and legs out so he looked like a starfish stuck to the wooden floor, staring blankly at the white ceiling above him.

This was how he was lying when his mother walked in. She laughed quietly to herself as she saw her younger son lying in a halo of dark curls, the very picture of boredom on the living room floor.

"What's wrong with my little Sherlie?" she asked in a sing-song voice as she walked over to the toddler.

"Bored," he moaned.

"Get up and play then," she reasoned with a smile.

"I tried but I'm still bored and Mycroft won't play with me and I don't need him anyway," Sherlock said defiantly, a scowl returning to his little face.

His mother pursed her lips thoughtfully, resting a hand on her hip and the other on her bottom lip, humming as she thought.

"I have just the thing!" she exclaimed proudly. "Come on, Sherlock," she smiled, reaching a hand out towards him.

His curiosity piqued, Sherlock scrambled up and took his mother's hand as she led him to the sofa.

"I don't want to watch tv," he whined as she told him to sit.

"You'll like this programme," she told him, smiling knowingly.

"Really?" he asked, his little eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Really," she confirmed, flicking the television on.

His mother changed the channel to one of the children's channels just as the next programme was starting. Sherlock tilted his head curiously and frowned at the screen, trying to figure out what it was.

There was a man in a green striped jumper and a blue dog jumping inside a house.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked incredulously, watching the man as he waved hello to all the children who were watching.

"This is Blue's Clues," his mother explained, smiling sweetly. "That dog is Blue and you have to help his owner, Kevin, play Blue's clues."

"But I don't know how to play," Sherlock said worriedly, staring at the screen with an anxious expression.

"You'll learn, Sherlie," she patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Okay," he nodded unsurely, crossing his legs and leaning forward in his seat.  
His mother left him contentedly as he started shouting that the next clue was behind Kevin, on the fridge.

"It's there! It's right there!"

She chuckled to herself and slipped out to finish her work.

Later, she peeked her head back into the living room to check on Sherlock. He had been uncharacteristically quiet and that was making her just a little anxious. There was no telling what mischief he could be up to when he was left alone, especially when he was silent.

She bit back a giggle as she peered in to find Sherlock wearing a green striped jumper that was far too big for him, obviously one of his father's, rolled up so that his tiny hands could just poke out of the sleeves and his own pair of brown shorts. He also had a little notebook and a crayon just like in the show and he was walking around the living room, glancing under the sofa and behind the door and around the whole room, apparently looking for clues.

"Mummy," he beamed proudly when he saw her. "I want to be a detective!" he shouted triumphantly, grinning.

"Really?" she asked, trying to be serious, but Sherlock looked so ridiculous and adorable in the green jumper that it was hard not to laugh or scoop him up into a tight hug.

"Mmhmm," he affirmed, nodding so that his curls bounced with a life of their own. "It's easy, but I like it. It's not boring," he said importantly.

"So my Sherlie's going to be a detective then?" she smiled, playing along for her toddler's sake. Little did she know how right she was.


	14. Books

14: Books

Molly remembered her very first day working in St. Bart's hospital. She was twenty six, bright and bubbly and eager to get the job done. Everyone at the hospital was lovely to her, trying to look out for her but somehow she still ended up flustered and swamped with work before her first lunch break.

It was mid afternoon and she was rushing towards the morgue with a pile of books balanced precariously in her arms. She rounded a corner and bumped straight into someone, scattering the books all over the floor. Loose pages fluttered down gently and Molly dived to the ground to pick them up, blushing and muttering an apology to the person she had walked into.

"It's fine," the person replied and Molly stood up slowly, clutching the books to her chest. It was him. She would recognise that voice anywhere.

She lifted her eyes to look at him from under her eyelashes and smiled shyly. There he was, ten years after he had left her school and went on to university and she had assumed that she would never see him again - there was Sherlock Holmes standing in front of her again.

His hair was still jet black and was curled gently in a way that made Molly want to ruffle it. His amazing sea blue eyes dotted with flecks of ocean green were fixed on her and it made Molly's heart race and his half smile melted her heart. Ten years later and he had become even more irresistible. How on earth was that possible?

"Hi Sherlock," she murmured, trying to sound like her normal chirpy self, instead of hopelessly in love.

Confusion flashed in his eyes as she said his name and though it was momentary, it was enough for Molly to catch the slight frown and the crease of his eyebrows.

She tucked her hair behind her ear.

"I'm Molly. We went to school together. Well sort of - I was two years younger but you helped me with my homework a few times," she babbled quickly, wishing she knew when to shut up.

"Molly?" he said slowly, tasting her name as he tried to place her. "Moll- oh, Molly Hooper," he said, smiling proudly as the recognition struck him.

"That's me," she shrugged, looking to the side and smiled.

"So, emm, what are you doing here?" she asked jovially. She was trying to keep him talking. She hadn't seen him in ten years and she had forgotten just how amazing his voice was. It was deep and gravelly but at the same time soft, like satin. Molly had never been able to figure out how it was possible but Sherlock defied lots of conventions. She had learned not to question it - she revelled in it instead.

"My job," he answered simply with the ghost of a shrug and a cocky smile.

"You work here?" Molly asked excitedly, bouncing unconsciously on her toes in her eagerness. Sherlock noticed the bounce before she did and his brow furrowed confusedly. His eyes narrowed uneasily and he frowned and Molly dropped from her toes, biting her lip and gazing at the ground awkwardly.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds as Sherlock looked away, his eyes dancing back and forth as he tried to figure out her reaction. He broke whatever train of thought he had been on with an imperceptible shake of his head and blinked, looking back to Molly. She couldn't help but notice that he looked like he had just been woken from a dream.

"Sort of," he said flatly.

"You sort of work here?" Molly repeated hesitantly, trying to puzzle out his meaning as she spoke. How could he sort of work in a morgue?

"I consult on cases so I need to be here to take a look at the bodies," he explained nonchalantly.

"Oh. So you're a pathologist?"

"Consulting detective," he told her in a dry tone, bristling a little.

'Oops' she thought to herself. Obviously, he didn't like having to explain his job to people.

"I've never heard of a consulting detective before. It sounds interesting," she tried, hoping that her being impressed with his job would warm him back up to her. Although warm wasn't a word that was synonymous with Sherlock Holmes.

"That's because I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job," Sherlock said self-assuredly. There was the trace of a proud smile again.

"Wow, that's...impressive," Molly smiled timorously, stealing another glance at his ocean coloured eyes from under her lashes. She reached a hand up to push her hair behind her ear, forgetting that it was in a ponytail. She chuckled once nervously as she slid her fingers over her ear, catching only a few loose hairs that had fallen out from the bobble. She could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks and prayed that the pink tint was unnoticeable.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and half smiled. He breathed out and pointed towards the morgue.

"Well, I have a body to get to," he reminded her in a tone that signalled the conversation was over. He appeared...uncomfortable.

"Oh yeah, yes, of course," Molly babbled quickly, nodding understandingly. She tried to hide her disappointment.

Sherlock smiled politely and swept past Molly, down the hall, his black coat swishing elegantly as he walked.

She turned and sighed happily as she watched him go. She wished she could talk to him just for a little longer.

"Sherlock? Would you - " she called hesitantly before her brain realised what she had done.

He span around again, his piercing eyes fixed on her. His lips were pressed together into a thin white line and he looked bored.

"Yes?" he called flatly, raising an eyebrow questioningly at Molly.

"Would you," she paused, rattling her brain for a cover. Anything would do.  
"Would you...take this to the lab for me?" she said quickly, holding a file towards him. "If you're going that way," she added, dropping her head shyly as he watched her curiously.

"Sure," he replied slowly, taking the file from her. His eyes scanned her and Molly shifted uncomfortably under his glare.

"Thanks," she muttered as he walked off again, this time with the file. "You can just dump it on the table."

"Okay," he shouted back without ever turning around to look at her again.  
Molly bit her bottom lip, grinning to herself as she watched Sherlock flounce away towards the morgue.

Working here had just gotten so much better.


	15. Boundaries

15: Boundaries

Boundaries. John didn't think that was a word that Sherlock Holmes knew the meaning of. He would endlessly find the detective leaning over his shoulder and invading his personal space or taking his laptop, or insulting his girlfriends, reading his emails, taking things from his room without asking. Sherlock just didn't know that they existed. He couldn't understand that there was an imaginary line that everyone knew you just didn't cross. Which is why  
John found it hilarious when he found himself being lectured by Sherlock on 'boundaries'.

It had all started on the Monday of that week. Sherlock had gotten a case on Saturday afternoon and John was convinced that he hadn't eaten since then. He brought a piece of dry toast and a cup of tea to Sherlock who was still working at the kitchen table.

"Why are you leaving that there?" Sherlock asked, never looking up from the eyepiece of the microscope as John left the plate beside him and began to walk away.

"Eat it," John ordered, turning back to look at Sherlock sternly.

"Not hungry," he replied flatly.

"Sherlock," John sighed, not ready to have this argument again. "You have to eat. You haven't eaten since Saturday. So eat it now or I'll shove it down your throat."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, continuing to ignore the toast and tea beside him.

"Just eat it," John told him, walking into the living room to watch television.  
Later that night, Sherlock was pacing around the living room, still running on empty - the cold toast was sitting untouched on the kitchen table.

John was resting in his armchair, reading the newspaper. He stretched his legs and yawned. He was tired and even listening to the swish of his dressing gown as Sherlock paced back and forth was making John feel exhausted. He had no idea how his flatmate hadn't collapsed yesterday, never mind how he was still bursting with energy now.

Suddenly, the pacing stopped as Sherlock growled and flopped onto the sofa, running his hands back and forth rapidly through his ebony curls. He buried his face into his hands and the stream of muttering that had accompanied the pacing ceased.

'Maybe he has collapsed after all,' John thought to himself, peering over the top of his paper at Sherlock.

"Maybe you should pack it in and get some sleep," John suggested, waiting to see if there was any chance his roommate might pass out.

"Shut up. Thinking," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Sherlock, get some sleep. You'll be able to think much more clearly if you aren't tired."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled, lifting his head to glare at John before the muttering picked up again.

Without another word, John crossed the room and lifted out the blanket he kept there for occasions such as these. He opened it out and threw it around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sleep," he ordered.

Sherlock raised his eyes to scowl at John. "I need to think," he repeated harshly but he didn't shrug the blanket off as John originally thought he might. That was something at least.

"Right, fine. You think but I'm going to bed," John informed him, yawning and shuffling towards the door. In the doorway, he paused to look back at Sherlock who had become a statue on the sofa, holding the sides of his head and his eyes were closed. He was moving his lips but making no sound and his eyelids flickered rapidly as he thought. John shook his head disbelievingly and trudged upstairs to his room.

He climbed into bed and relished in the soft coolness of his pillow against his head. His eyes fluttered shut and he was asleep within seconds.

A few hours later, although to John it felt more like minutes, he woke up, peering into the dark haze of his bedroom. Groggily he rolled over and checked his alarm clock. The glowing red numbers said it was 4:37 am.

'Great,' he thought, rubbing his eyes which were laced with sleep and still adjusting to the darkness. He yawned and stretched while his vision cleared. He ran a hand through his hair and let it drop behind his head on the pillow. Then with tremendous effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position, letting his feet fall over the the edge of the bed.

John trudged downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink for himself. He opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk.

Glass in hand, he was all set to go back to bed but he stopped and walked back to the living room instead. He peered at the dark figure of the consulting detective lying on the sofa facing into the wall with his back to John. Was Sherlock actually asleep?

He crept over to Sherlock just to peer over his shoulder. The detective's breathing was slow and even - he seemed to be asleep.

Behind him, Sherlock could hear John tiptoeing closer to him. He turned his head to find the good doctor hanging over him, watching him as he lay there.  
John took a step back as Sherlock turned to face him.

"Oh, hey," he muttered. "Just checking if you were asleep."

"You need to learn to respect my boundaries, John," Sherlock chastised him with a condescending look.

John laughed and bit his bottom lip to catch the sound before it left his throat. It resulted in a strange snort and he struggled not to laugh as the corners of his lips turned up.

"What?" he choked out, trying to sound serious but failing miserably.

"You heard me," Sherlock responded coldly, turning his back to John and lying back down again.

John looked up to the ceiling as he tried to hold back his laughter.

"Are you, of all people, seriously lecturing me on 'boundaries'?" The notion was completely ridiculous.

"Yes. You need to stop trying to enforce food and sleep on me when I'm trying to think," the curly haired man elaborated expressionlessly.

"I'm just trying to make sure you don't collapse," John protested.

"I'm aware of my own limits. Stop trying to force yours on me."

John lifted his hands, conceding. "Okay, okay," he said, deciding to get out of there before he laughed and insulted Sherlock. He didn't want a petulant detective sulking around the flat tomorrow.

He made it to his room before he gave in, laughing to himself and shaking his head in disbelief.

"I was just lectured on boundaries by Sherlock. By Sherlock Holmes. That is...surreal," he chuckled to himself.


	16. Break

16: Break

Sherlock was sitting in the common room in school. It was lunch but he had already finished his meagre sandwich and drink. He was bored and claustrophobic in the crowded room. It was too noisy and too many people were crammed into the tiny room. He needed to get out. He needed a break from it; from people.  
He stood up from where he was sitting in the back corner of the room and pushed his way out through the crowd. Out in the hall, it was almost completely silent. Good, but not quite good enough.

Sherlock headed to the nearest set of stairs and climbed up to the top floor of the school. When he got up, he turned right and walked along the abandoned corridors to one of the science labs. Technically, he wasn't allowed to be up here unsupervised, but he didn't care. He had done it plenty of times before.

He opened the door to the lab and peered inside. Empty. Good.

He slipped in through the door and went to the nearest bench. It was entirely quiet in this room: nobody to disturb his thinking. He took out a high powered microscope and some of the sample slides that he hadn't identified before.

Delicately, he picked up one of the slides and slid it into place precisely. He turned the light on on the microscope and peered into the lens, twisting the dials on the side until the sample came into focus.

He sighed. Too easy. Onion cell.

He snapped the slide out of the holder and replaced it in its box. He traded it for the next one along and refocused the microscope. This one was a cell from a red plant. He had just recalled the name of it when the door from the store between classrooms swung open. Sherlock lifted his head up from the microscope to see his chemistry teacher standing there, raising one eyebrow at him and smirking.

"Sherlock, what are you doing up here?" she asked, walking over to join him. She didn't sound angry or annoyed. She understood that Sherlock wasn't the same as other children his age. His profound knowledge of chemistry already exceeded the specification for his fourth year course and it still amazed her just how much the fifteen year old knew.

"Just looking at cells," he told her unfazed.

"Why?" she pressed. "Don't you want to enjoy your lunch?" she chuckled.

"I am," he replied earnestly. "The common room is too crowded. I like the quiet up here," he explained.

His teacher frowned. "Have you been doing this for a while, Sherlock?"

"Now and then," he shrugged. "On days when I need a break from people."

"Don't your friends want you to sit with them?"

Sherlock gave her a disapproving look. "My only friend was John and he's gone to university. Since then, I've been doing this."

"Oh...You know you really aren't supposed to be up here?" she smiled.

"I know," he nodded.

"Well as long as you're here, want to help me set up experiments for my next class? It might interest you. It's the A level class," she told him.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "Why not?" he grinned.

Together, the two of them had the experiments set up in about ten minutes. Sherlock was very precise with all the equipment and it still surprised the chemistry teacher that he knew how to set it all up without her explanation. As soon as she told him what the experiment was, he went to the cupboards and pulled out the correct lab equipment and began assembling it. She laughed quietly to herself and shook her head. Then she took some of the equipment and began setting it up alongside Sherlock.

"Some break this was for you," she joked as they finished setting up the experiments.

"No, this is good. I like this," Sherlock replied earnestly.

"If you really want, you can come up every now and again. I can set up experiments for you or you can help set up ones for the next class. It would be good to have an assistant of sorts," she smiled.

Sherlock watched her to see if she was joking but she appeared to be serious.  
"All right," he said. "I'll come up here at lunch time from now on. It'll be much more interesting than sitting downstairs," he muttered under his breath.

His teacher laughed. "I'm sure it will."


	17. Burn

17: Burn

Sherlock was lying sideways in his armchair, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, staring at John's empty chair in front of him. He narrowed his eyes at it as if it was profusely annoying him just by being there. In truth, it was. It was blocking his view of the kitchen.

He stared at it for a few minutes before leaping up from his chair and purposely clambering over the back of it to get to the kitchen instead of just walking around the offending piece of furniture like a petulant child.

Once he was at the kitchen table, he pushed aside a pile of books to clear a little space. He took out a blow torch and set it in the gap he created amid the mess of sheets and vials.

Sherlock whirled around to face the counter behind him and put the kettle on. While he waited for it to boil, he threw a tea bag into one of the clean mugs; funnily enough, he didn't remember washing any of them - must have just happened again - and got a spoon out from the drawer. When the kettle boiled, he made himself a mug of tea, adding just a dash of milk to it and took it back to the wooden table.

Taking out one of the eyeballs from the fridge, he lit the blow torch and began heating the eyeball, delicately moving the tip of the flame over the surface of it. There wasn't much point to the experiment; he had done it many times before, other than to dispel the immense boredom he was suffering from.  
Just then there was a timid little knock at the door followed by the characteristic "Oo-oo," of Mrs Hudson. She opened the door and peered in around it.

"Just came up to see how you were, Sherlock," she smiled kindly at him.  
"Same as every other time you've checked in on me," Sherlock replied in a monotone drawl, never looking away from the eyeball. Ever since he had come home again, Mrs Hudson had checked in on him nearly every day as if she expected to find Sherlock planning to jump off any more buildings.

"Oh be careful with that," she scolded him gently as she caught sight of the blow torch. "You'll burn yourself," she warned him, pushing the door open into the kitchen and bustling inside.

"I've never burned myself," he told her in the same bored tone. He was fed up with the almost daily check-ups on how he was doing. He was either bored or thinking; if he was thinking, he certainly didn't want Mrs Hudson interrupting. If he was bored, sometimes her company would be a tad more welcome but he lost any interest in it again when she began prattling about the weather or her inane day to day routine, which usually involved a lot of cleaning and talking about her life, or her old friends and everything they got up to. She had even taken to showing him her Instagram photos which Sherlock really had no interest in. Why did he care what she had had for breakfast that morning? He told her as much but it didn't deter her from trying to get him to join the craze.

"Don't forget John's coming soon," she reminded him as she began to tidy up the countertop, putting mugs and dishes in the sink, brushing up some spilled coffee and wiping up some milk.

"Is he?" Sherlock's head snapped up from the blow torch and Mrs Hudson bit back a smile.

"Yes, dear, he told you on Tuesday. Called me last night to remind you as well. He knew you'd forget; you always forget things like that. He's coming to talk about the wedding, remember?" she reminded him gently as she began straightening up some sheets on the table.

"Oh, that," Sherlock replied disappointedly, allowing his eyes to trail back down to his experiment.

"Must be something important," Mrs Hudson continued. When her back was turned to him, she grinned to herself.

"Poor dear has no idea," she thought to herself.

"It's a wedding. How could it be important?" he asked dryly and Mrs Hudson tutted.

"Oh Sherlock, be nice. It's a very important day for John and Mary - one of the best days of their lives," she smiled nostalgically as she recalled her own wedding day and the dress and the flowers and the people, and of course Mr Hudson.

Sherlock sighed loudly, cutting through her memory.

"Then their lives will be very dull," he remarked cuttingly.

"Oh stop it," she said, swatting a hand at him playfully.

"Don't you have something to do?" Sherlock asked bluntly. Evidentially, he had had enough of this conversation already.

"I'll leave you to get ready for John," she grinned happily as she bustled back to the door.

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at the door as it closed. He stayed like that for a moment before he realised his blow torch was still on. He turned it off and left the experiment on the table to go and get dressed.

A few minutes later, he emerged fully dressed, but still in his dressing gown. He had just picked the experiment up again as he heard the front door open downstairs.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he heard the familiar footsteps of his friend walk across the hall to Mrs Hudson's flat. He lit the blow torch again with a smirk and waited for his friend to come upstairs.


	18. Buttons

18: Buttons

Up the stairs. That was where he had to get to. Up the stairs.

He couldn't remember why but that was the only thought that consumed his mind. Get up the stairs. 

Sherlock leaned heavily against the banister as his knees gave out beneath him again. His foot slipped down a step and he crashed against the stairs, managing to catch himself with one hand on the stair above him. He grunted as he pushed himself back up on to his unsteady feet. His body was screaming in agony, telling him to lie there, not to move. Don't get back up.

But there was one message in his head that was over-riding the pain. Get. Up. The. Stairs.

Sherlock summoned every last ounce of his energy and pushed himself up the last few stairs as his head swirled. He fought against the burning pain that made him feel as though he were on fire. With every step, the fire seared through his limbs from the core in his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, trying to bite back the pained groans as he trudged forever upwards.

As he reached the top, he could see a bright white light growing around him. It grew and grew until it devoured everything; until there was nothing but the light.

And then a voice.

"Sherlock."

He struggled to open his eyes but he knew he wasn't on the stair case anymore.

"Sherlock, you don't tell him."

Tell him? Tell him what? Tell who?

"Open your eyes and tell me that you won't tell John."

Sherlock managed to prise his eyelids open enough to see the blurry outline of a woman with short, blonde hair. Tell John wh - oh.

"Mary."

And then he opened his eyes.

At first sight, Sherlock had no idea where he was. He blinked painfully against the bright light of the room he was in, creasing his brow and turning his head to the right to shield his eyes from the piercing light. A low moan escaped his lips.

"Sherlock?"

There was a voice close by to his right but Sherlock's mind was groggy and slow and he didn't recognise it instantly. Gingerly, he opened his eyes, peering out through the smallest gap he could make to see who was attached to the floating voice.

John was sitting there, looking ragged and tired. Dark circles underlined his eyes and the wrinkles in his clothes even now told Sherlock that he had been sitting there for a while. He was leaning forward in his seat, holding onto the arm of the chair. His eyes were wide and his lips parted in surprise before a wide grin split his face.

"John?" Sherlock croaked. His voice sounded awful and it took him by surprise. He frowned at the broken sound as John smiled weakly, seemingly trying to look reassuring.

"Oh Jesus," John sighed in relief, dropping back in the chair and running a hand through his hair. "You - I can't - Christ, you pulled through," he muttered quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. His voice wavered and Sherlock noticed him swallowing hard.

"How do you feel?" he asked gently, watching Sherlock with sympathy in his eyes, clearly trying to buy some time to compose himself. Sherlock hated the sorry look John gave him. He despised it. He cleared his throat and tried conjure his usual aloof expression.

"I'm..." What? Tired? Exhausted? In agony? Dizzy? Sick? Burning? But he wouldn't admit to it.  
"...fine, considering," he settled for that with a tired smile.

John laughed humourlessly and shook his head.

"Of course you are," he muttered. He had been 'fine' too when he had been shot. But he remembered the excruciating agony searing through his shoulder. He remembered how every little movement caused him immense pain; he remembered the exhaustion and the fire and the weakness that had drained his body. But mostly he remembered the nightmares that haunted him. He remembered the trauma and how in the middle of the night, the scene would play over and over in his mind until he woke up with a scream, sweating and panting and aching.  
His eyes trailed back down to Sherlock. Yeah, he remembered 'fine' too and he could see it in the weak form lying in front of him. He just prayed that Sherlock wouldn't suffer the nightmares. Because the pain, although it was awful, it was bearable. You could fight against it. But when the nightmares hit, you were defenceless. There was nothing you could do to stop it even when you knew it was coming. You had to go through it, watching helplessly all over again and even when you woke it, it wouldn't leave you alone. The ghost of it tormented you, plaguing you, refusing to leave even in the early morning light. It didn't make much difference because you knew you wouldn't sleep again that night anyway. There was no escape.

'But maybe Sherlock'll be different,' he thought to himself. 'It wouldn't be like him to do things differently just to spite everyone.' That thought made him chuckle quietly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back up to him curiously and there was an almost imperceptible crease in his brow, wordlessly asking John what he was laughing at.

"Nothing," he answered the look out loud with a shake of his head.

Sherlock sighed and laid his head back down against the pillow. His eyes examined the pristine white ceiling above him tiredly. A silence fell across the room, only broken by the incessant beeping of his heart rate monitor and his own breathing.

"I can't believe you're alive. We lost you. Your heart stopped," John told him. He bit the inside of his lip and exhaled through his nose, trying to keep control. Then he laughed lightly, trying to shrug it off.

"I was going to kill you if you had died on me again," he joked. "I don't think I would have believed it anyway. I mean, not after last time..." John trailed off as his voice broke again.

Another uncomfortable silence fell across the room. Again it was broken by John as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Why did you say Mary?" he asked sheepishly, looking at his hands in his lap. He looked uncomfortable but he tried to play it off, twisting the corner of his jacket.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, still staring at the ceiling above him.

"First thing you said. 'Mary,'" he glanced up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes.

"Did I?" Sherlock asked, pretending that he didn't remember it. The hazy outline passed through his mind again and he blinked it away quickly.

"I must have been dreaming," Sherlock offered, moving up the pillow. He grimaced as pain shot through his chest and choked him.

John's doctoring instincts kicked in immediately. He reached out a hand to gently lay Sherlock back against the pillows, telling him not to move. As Sherlock lay down, too weak to argue back with John as he would usually do when John tried to make him do just about anything, he stretched his hand out over Sherlock and fiddled with the buttons on his morphine drip, increasing his dosage.

"You should rest," John told him gently. "No arguments," he added as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. "You were shot and you bloody well died, Sherlock, so you're going to rest whether you like it or not," John told him firmly, using the same stern voice he had used on his soldiers.

Sherlock, very un-soldier like, lay back against the pillow, pouting sulkily. Already the morphine was making him sleepy. He could feel his eyes drifting shut. He let his eyelids flutter closed; he simply didn't have the energy or the will to fight it.

With a tiny breath out, Sherlock relaxed into the pillow, falling instantly into a deep slumber.  
John sighed at the sight and shook his head.

"Jesus," he whispered softly. "I can't believe you did it again, you bastard," he smiled fondly as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. John stood, taking one last look at his best friend as a soft snore rumbled through his chest before he walked out into the hall. He couldn't wait to tell Mary the good news. Sherlock was alive.


	19. Calm

19: Calm  
Twelve year old Sherlock stumbled through the front door in his ragged school uniform. His tie was loose and hanging low around his neck, there were mud stains along the knees of his trousers, his shirt and jumper were both crumpled and his shoes were covered in new scuff marks. There was mud trailed across his face mixed in with blood and his torso was covered in newly forming bruises. He trudged through the door, tossing his school bag carelessly at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly forgetting the horrible day he had had in school. He dashed into the kitchen, whistling and calling for his dog.

"Red Beard, here boy!" Sherlock headed over to the dog basket where Red Beard usually waited for him. He hummed to himself when he saw it was empty.  
'He must have got up today,' he thought to himself as he walked out of the kitchen, whistling again.

"Red Beard, come here boy," he called. After the day he had had, Sherlock just wanted to play with his best friend. Red Beard understood Sherlock like no one else could. He never judged him, or told him that he was a freak, or that he was too young, or that he wouldn't understand. He could tell when Sherlock was sad and he knew exactly how to coax him out of a bad mood; usually by attacking the boy and licking his face while Sherlock giggled and half-heartedly tried to push him away. They were best friends, completely inseparable. Every day when Sherlock walked through the door, Red Beard was waiting eagerly for him and Sherlock, regardless of his mood would always smile and bend down to scratch him behind the ears and tell him that he was a clever boy. That's just how it was. How it had been since he was six and his parents had come home one day with a brown, bouncing ball of fluff and told Sherlock that they had a surprise for him. He had been in school for over a year by then and still hadn't made a single friend. Even Mycroft had made more of an effort. So his parents had decided that a puppy was the best way forward.

Sherlock and Red Beard had bonded immediately from the moment that Sherlock had peered cautiously at the little ball of fur. Red Beard had jumped up, running to the boy and sniffing his feet and stood on his back legs, putting his front paws up on Sherlock's leg. The little boy bent down to stroke his ears and the puppy began licking his hand. A smile spread across Sherlock's face and he laughed. His parents had been thrilled.

Since that first moment, the two had been best friends. It was simple; Sherlock and Red Beard. That was guaranteed.

Sherlock had wandered into the living room, still calling Red Beard. It was strange that he hadn't bounded in after Sherlock already, jumping up on him, trying to lick him and barking excitedly.

"Red Beard!" Sherlock shouted loudly as his eyes swept over the empty room.

"Sherlock?" he heard his father call him from the kitchen as the sound of the back door clicking shut echoed through the house. His father must have been outside working in the garden again. The boy rolled his eyes but trailed listlessly into the kitchen. He just wanted to find his dog.

"Hello Daddy," he smiled as he walked through the door. He paused as he saw his mother there too. She took a seat at the kitchen table, a look of absolute sympathy mixed with gut-wrenching guilt fixed on her son. His father's expression was similar and it made the boy's stomach swirl sickeningly.

"Sweetie, sit down," his mother muttered gently, gesturing to the seat in front of her. His dad leaned against the corner of the table, looking like a grim figure from a Greek tragedy. As Sherlock took in their expressions, he swallowed hard. His fingers twisted at his sides but he stayed where he was, feet rooted firmly to the ground. He could feel his chest tightening in anxiety and Sherlock tried to push the feeling out of his mind, but there was sense of foreboding that wouldn't stop nagging at the edge of his mind.

"What is it?" the boy asked quietly, his voice sounding strangely calm and even but there was a detached quality to it like listening to your own voice in a dream. His eyes focused on his parents, examining every little movement scrupulously with laser-precision as he tried to deduce what they had to tell him. The list of endless scenarios playing through his head made his chest tighten further and he urged them silently to hurry up and tell him already.

Mrs Holmes pressed her lips together and her eyes dropped to the table as she fingered the table cloth.

Mr Holmes exhaled through his nose, lowering his eyes for a moment. When he looked back, his eyes were sad and gentle.

"It's about Red Beard, Sherlock," his father began softly.

"What about him? Is he sick? Where is he?" Sherlock burst in. There was a touch of franticness to the edge of his voice as the worry broke through. He pressed his lips shut, biting the inside of his top lip as he tried to reign in his emotions.

"We took him to the vet this morning," his mother continued, lifting her gaze just a little, still playing nervously with the corner of the table cloth.

Sherlock stared at his parents, waiting for one of them to elaborate further. The lump in his throat blocked his voice, leaving him unable to do anything but watch helplessly and wait.

"They, uh," his father took a deep breath to steady himself before he continued. "They had to put him down, son."

A numbness ran through Sherlock's body as his father spoke. At first, the words didn't sink in; didn't have any meaning to him. He blinked blankly at them, in complete shut down. Then the words sucker-punched him in the stomach and his mouth fell open with the impact.  
His breath hitched in his throat and tears filled his eyes. His stomach dropped into his shoes and he felt ill.

"W-what?" he stammered, barely able to get the word out.

"He was put down, Sherlock," Mr Holmes repeated. He took a step towards his son, reaching out his arms to embrace him in a hug but the boy stepped backwards, still staring blankly at them as if they had just admitted to murdering someone.

In Sherlock's mind, they had.

His breathing was ragged as anger grew in the pit of stomach; a burning fire that bubbled up and spilled out over the surface, completely covering the little boy.

"You put him down? You _killed_ him?" he asked slowly, his voice rising in anger.

"Sherlock, dear, it had to happen. We didn't have a choice," his mother tried to appeal to him.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, glaring furiously at them. "You killed him! You didn't even let me say goodbye!"

"Sherlock," his father tried again to calm the boy. The hurt of his son's accusations was evident in his eyes.

"You were in school. We couldn't come to get you and we thought maybe it would be better this way. The last memory you have of him is a happy one," he tried to explain but Sherlock shook his head fiercely, darting an enraged look at his parents.

"You could have let me say goodbye! You didn't - you killed him!" Sherlock screamed, working himself up into a near frenzy. His thoughts jumbled together, all of them clambering over each other to get to the front of his mind to be heard. They stuck in his throat as his sentences became incoherent in rage.

"Sherlock, sweetie," his mother started.

"No, I _hate_ you!" The boy screamed the words vehemently before he turned and ran out of the room as the tears flowed over. He couldn't hold them in anymore as his anger deserted him, leaving Sherlock feeling hollow and limp. A sob escaped his lips as he dashed upstairs, blinded by his own tears as he made for his room.

Mycroft, who had obviously heard the whole thing, was leaning against the banister at the top of the stairs with a disproving frown plastered on his face. His arms were folded across his chest and he rolled his eyes as his little brother ran upstairs towards him.

"Calm down, Sherlock, he was a dog. Caring is not an advantage," he drawled.

"Piss off, Mycroft!" Sherlock shoved his brother roughly as he ran past, making him stumble backwards. Sherlock ran on into his room, slamming the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed as he lost the lose grip of control that he had left.

Sobs racked the little boy's body as he cried into his pillow. As he lay crying softly, there was only one thought left in his mind.

_That was it. He had decided. That was the last time he would care about anyone._


	20. Cage

20: Cage

For the fourth time in about as many minutes, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket to check the time. He had long since stopped paying attention to any of the mindless drivel that was going on around him but time refused to co-operate and end his prolonged suffering. It ticked by as slowly as it felt naturally possible for a clock to move without freezing completely and Sherlock was nearing breaking point. His head was splitting, his back protested from being forced to sit in a normal posture for once and his eyes kept blurring out of focus as he stared out of the window at the grey sky and the dull little red-brick house that sat opposite with a dainty little '9' drilled onto the wall. He felt like an animal, trapped in a cage at the zoo while all the humans stumbled around stupidly, stuffing their faces with greasy, disgusting food, pointing dumbly with their vacant expressions and yelling; it was always yelling. As a species, they just couldn't seem to handle the concept of quiet in a large group.

He rubbed his forehead tiredly and pinched the bridge of his nose as another round of raucous, over-the-top laughter erupted, spreading like waves throughout the room, making his head feel like it was being slammed against the brick wall of the house across the street.

"Sherlock, dear, you're being very quiet. Are you all right? You look pale," his mother's concerned voice broke into the confines of his mind and he managed to turn his head to look at her and offer "I'm always pale," in return. He rested his elbow on the arm of the sofa he was sitting on and breathed out slowly; a long suffering sigh escaping his lungs. It helped lift a little of the dead weight off his chest.

His mother tutted and reprimanded him with "Oh Sherlock," but he had tuned out again and missed the comment.

The conversation continued uninterrupted, pouring over Sherlock's head like an unrelenting waterfall until it just became too much. He stood up suddenly and muttered something about going to get a drink, having to restrain himself from the urge to run into the kitchen. He made it to the countertop and leaned up against it, pressing his forehead into the cool granite. It felt good against his aching head and he let out a sigh of relief as the coolness soothed the throbbing headache.

Dragging a hand across his face, he stood and walked to the cupboard to take out a glass. He grabbed the bottle of Coke from the fridge and poured himself a small glass. He took a tentative sip and leaned back against the countertop, setting his hip against it as he drank.

He was not going back into that room; that much was decided. His parents and their friends could easily enjoy their night just as well if Sherlock disappeared and locked himself in the safe haven of his room. Mycroft wasn't even at home to complain with or bounce deductions off for once; not that he needed his brother for that anyway, he reminded himself. He was eighteen - he didn't need his older brother to save him.

Sherlock twisted his glass in his hand, watching the dark liquid swirl softly inside. He drained the rest of it in one gulp and left the empty glass in the sink and stole silently upstairs, escaping the horrific noise of downstairs. He shut his door behind him and smiled at the relative quiet that washed over him. Of course, it was still possible for him to hear the muffled laughs and conversation echoing up the hall but it was much of an improvement from being stuck in the room with them. Still, Sherlock decided to drown the sound out completely.

He took his violin out from its case, holding it carefully by the neck. With his free hand, he slid the bow out of its position in the casing and in the same swift movement he brought the violin up to rest under his chin and brought the bow up to rest on top of the strings.

He flexed the fingers on his left hand, moving them back and forth across the strings for a moment without actually playing, just getting a feel for it in his hand again. Then he moved them into their starting position and slid the bow over the strings, a long down stroke to start off slowly. The tune began to build as bow and fingers danced across the strings, sometimes building speed, sometimes moving more languidly, creating a hauntingly sweet melody that filled his room.

Sherlock had become so enveloped in the music that he hadn't heard a lull in the conversation downstairs as they all stopped, awestruck, to listen to the music that floated downstairs to greet them.

"Your Sherlock's a real talent with that violin," one of the friends smiled.

"He's amazing! Did he compose that himself?"

Mr Holmes looked to his wife thoughtfully.

"He must be composing now; don't think I've heard that one before," he mulled it over.

Mrs Holmes listened for few seconds longer before nodding her head in agreement.

"Yes, that's a new one. Sherlock must be composing it now."

Which of course threw all their guests into shock.

"He's making that up now? It sounds fantastic! He doesn't even pause to think!"

"That kid is a genius; just listen to that. It's as good as anything I've ever heard."

"It's brilliant how he can do that. I couldn't hold a violin let alone do that."

"Do you think he would play it down here for us?"

"I'll ask him," Mrs Holmes smiled. She made her way upstairs and knocked lightly on her younger son's door.

"Sherlock?" she called gently, pushing the door open and peeking inside. Her son was standing at his window with his back to the door, hips swaying ever so slightly with the rhythm of the music.

He stopped as he heard the door opening and glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows at her and humming.

"Composing?" she asked with a gentle half-smile.

"Yes," he nodded, taking his violin down to his side.

"Would you play for our friends? They heard you playing and they have requested your presence in the living room," she grinned, perching herself on the edge of his bed.

"You were listening?"

"Couldn't help it," she replied with a tiny shrug.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, his icy blue eyes glancing her up and down as he thought it over.

"All right," he replied flatly.

"Thank you," Mrs Holmes stood up and patted his shoulder.

Both of them went back into the living room, Sherlock carrying his violin and bow with him. He stood awkwardly just inside the door, swinging the bow back and forth, rocking on his heels.

"The artist has graced us with his presence," Mrs Holmes said jokingly as she took her seat again and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mother," he groaned.

"Sorry," she chuckled.

"Go ahead Sherlock," his father urged him gently.

Sherlock sighed again but raised his violin back under his chin. He began playing the tune he had been composing upstairs and for the first time that night, the conversation stopped completely. A silence fell across the room, only broken by the gentle melody floating around the room, twisting and dancing through the air like a graceful ballerina.

When he finished, Sherlock dropped his bow and violin to his sides and bowed his head while his parents' friends poured compliments over him.

He smiled almost nervously in return, thanked them briefly and escaped quickly from the room again back up into his bedroom.

Downstairs, his mother and father shared a look and smiled, shaking their heads.


	21. Captain

21: Captain

Sherlock's father stood outside his son's primary school at 1:30 on a gloriously sunny afternoon. He watched as the teacher paraded the primary one class towards the school exit, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the mop of black curls in the crowd of four and five year olds but he couldn't see Sherlock among them.

The door swung open and the kids rushed out, all running and screaming and cheering, wearing massive grins across their face as they raced to their parents, chattering on about what they did that day and what they had learned and "Look what I made! Look what I made!"

Mr Holmes smiled at the sight, sidling to the right of the gate to let some of the parents out with their child. He hadn't yet seen Sherlock and looked back up towards the school building, wondering where his son could be. He saw the teacher down on her knees, talking to Sherlock who was purposely keeping his gaze from meeting hers and his heart sank.

The teacher stood up and reached a hand out towards Sherlock, offering him a hand to hold but he ignored it and walked ahead of her towards his father. She half-smiled and followed behind the four year old.

"Mr Holmes, I presume," she smiled politely as she approached his father, holding out her hand in a friendly gesture.

"Yes, that's me," he offered a weak smile in return as he shook her hand genially. "Is everything all right?"

"I just thought you should know that Sherlock was involved in a bit of a falling out with another boy today. Now of course what Brian did is totally unacceptable and I'll have a talk with his parents about it and monitor the situation but I've also had a little chat with Sherlock about what he said in return. He knows that he shouldn't have," she said, raising her eyebrows at the little boy who scuffed his shoe along the pavement and ignored her.

"We cleaned him up as best we could, didn't we, Sherlock?" she smiled brightly at him and received a reluctant nod for her efforts.

"I'll keep an eye out for your boy Mr Holmes. Bullying of any sort is not allowed here and I'll make sure it doesn't. I just felt you should know and if you'd like to arrange a meeting with either myself or the school, we would be more than happy to oblige."

"Right," Mr Holmes breathed out, taking his son's hand and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Only a month at primary school and his son was being bullied? The thought made him feel ill as he stole a glance down at Sherlock who looked even smaller than usual.

"Well, I'll need to talk it over with my wife first," he answered.

"Oh yes, of course, go home and talk it through. But the school is here to support you and Sherlock and we'll nip this little argument in the bud before anything really emerges from it," she babbled, shaking Mr Holmes' hand again before heading back towards the school.

"Sherlock, what happened?" his father asked as he led him away from the green school gate towards the car.

Sherlock swung his free arm carelessly and hesitated.

"Umm..."

"Sherlock," his father chided gently at which the boy sighed heavily and dropped his shoulders.

"Brian called me a freak because I found a dead bird at the back of playground and he started telling everyone that I had killed it! But I didn't!" Sherlock protested loudly.

"And then he pushed me over and I cut my hands and knees so I told him that his mummy was kissing someone else and he punched me in the tummy," he explained melancholically.

"Oh Sherlock," Mr Holmes shook his head sadly, feeling sorry for his little boy. "I know it isn't nice when people do things like that but you can't make up those sorts of things to get back at them," he told him as he opened the car door and hoisted his little boy into his booster seat.

"But I didn't make it up!" Sherlock argued crossly, kicking his leg angrily as his father strapped his seat belt across him.

"Sherlock, you can't know that his mother is kissing someone else unless you have seen them do it," his father explained gently.

"Yes I can!"

"How?"

"Brian's daddy goes away every Thursday for work and he doesn't come back until Monday. And every Friday, his mummy turns up to collect him and she never wears her wedding ring and - and she smells of a different man's perfume -"

Mr Holmes laughed lightly.

"Cologne?" he suggested.

"Yeah that!" Sherlock agreed excitedly. "She smells of a different cologne every Friday and she smiles a lot more."

"That doesn't mean -" Mr Holmes interrupted but Sherlock spoke over him.

"And a guy drove past school on Thursday and she talked to him and she kept laughing and biting her lip and twisting her hair and then she whispered that she would see him that night and kissed his cheek," Sherlock continued determinedly.

That stopped his father in his tracks. Maybe his son wasn't so far off the mark?

"But Sherlock, you still can't say those sorts of things. It isn't nice."

"Saying I killed the bird and pushing me and punching me isn't nice either!" he declared, folding his arms huffily across his chest. "At least mine was true," he mumbled, dropping his gaze dejectedly to his lap and allowing his head to sag forward a little.

His father felt his heart go out to the little boy. Sherlock wasn't a bad kid at all; he just wished that other kids his age could see that. He stretched out his left hand from the gear stick to ruffle Sherlock's hair lovingly.

"What do you say we stop at the shop and buy some sweets, hm?"

Sherlock lifted his head, studying his father's expression carefully.

"But don't tell your mother or we'll both be in trouble," he added with a mischievous wink, managing to coax a grin out of Sherlock.

"Okay," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips.

Mr Holmes beamed as he drove them to the shop where Sherlock picked out a bag of milk chocolate buttons.

By the time they arrived home, the bag was empty and Mr Holmes carefully disposed of the evidence in the bin while Sherlock ran upstairs to change out of his school uniform.

He toddled back downstairs in a pair of light brown trousers and a pale, sky blue jumper, hopping into the kitchen again.

In the meantime, his father had made himself a cup of tea and was just adding the milk as Sherlock bounced back in.

"So what do you want to do today?" Mr Holmes asked his son, smiling warmly as he screwed the lid back on to the carton of milk and replaced it in the fridge.

"Treasure Island!" Sherlock shouted quickly, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

"You want to read the next chapter now?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"

Mr Holmes laughed and scooped Sherlock up by his underarms. "All right, I'll get the book then," he chuckled, carrying his son into the living room.

"Wait!" Sherlock protested, wriggling to get free of his father's grip.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I need to get something first!"

His father smirked as he set the young boy down, knowing exactly what it would be already.

"Okay, off you go."

Sherlock dashed out of the room and back upstairs into his bedroom. He snatched his pirate hat from on top of his toy box and balanced it precariously on top of his head. He also took his wooden sword, swinging it wildly in one hand while the other clutched at his hat as he ran back down to his father who was already sitting in his arm chair with the book opened across his lap.

Sherlock ran in and plopped himself on the floor in front of his dad, peering up eagerly at him.

"Ready?" Mr Holmes chuckled.

Sherlock nodded his head and his hat slid forward over his eyes. He growled and pushed it back up as his father laughed and began reading.

After a chapter or two, the book was lost in favour of a real pirate adventure which involved Captain Sherlock commanding the high seas with his trusty crew against the evil king who was trying to overthrow all pirates (or Mr Holmes.)

Sherlock leapt from the sofa onto the floor as the evil king lunged towards him. In one swift movement, Captain Sherlock span around and thrust his sword at the king, killing him.

Mr Holmes dropped onto the sofa, groaning, clutching the toy sword to his chest.

"You got me. It seems, Captain Sherlock, that I was no match for you. Now there is no one to stop your rule over the sea," he proclaimed dramatically as he lay his head down against the sofa and shut his eyes.

Sherlock wrenched the sword from the his father's hands and held it triumphantly in the air.

"I rule the sea!" he yelled in his pirate voice.

Mr Holmes sat up and grabbed Sherlock by the waist, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Yes you do, Captain," he murmured softly, stroking Sherlock's curls at the back of his head.


	22. Cards

22: Cards

It was early morning when the smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the small dorm into Sherlock's bedroom, pulling him gently out of his sleep. He opened one eye blearily, rubbing the other as he peered out at the grey light pouring into his room through the gap in his navy blue curtains. He rolled onto his back, resting his arms on the pillow at either side of his head and twisting, arching his back to stretch it. It felt good as he relaxed his muscles again, lying back against the soft pillow, sinking deeper into the cocoon of blankets he had pulled around himself in his sleep. It was deliciously warm and comfortable and he didn't want to move. He considered taking that option and skipping his lectures that morning; after all, he could catch up later and his bed was just so inviting.

Sherlock snuggled back down under the blankets, curling his legs up and revelling in the warmth and the softness of his pillow and the smooth, crisp feel of the duvet against his skin. He shut his eyes and was losing himself in the realms of his mind when music blaring from somewhere outside his room rudely cut through, shattering his reverie. Sherlock peeked out over the top of his blanket frowning confusedly at the door as he heard a female voice begin to sing along.

"So she said what's the problem, baby? What's the problem? I don't know, well, maybe I'm in love…"

He rubbed his forehead tiredly, propping himself up further on his elbow as he tried to figure out who was singing. John must have had someone over last night. Sherlock groaned and kicked his sheets back, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. The air of the dorm felt cool against his bed-warm skin and he rubbed his arms as the hairs began standing up on end. He grabbed his red dressing down and slung it on carelessly over his ash grey t-shirt and stumbled barefoot into the kitchen.

Dancing around his kitchen in one of John's jumpers that just about covered her underwear was a short girl with ginger hair scraped messily back into a bun. She had her back to Sherlock as she flipped an egg in the frying pan, bobbing her head in time with the music as she sang along.

"The world will follow after. Come on, come on because everybody's after lo-oooooooo-oooove."

She span around in a flourish, spatula in hand, using it as an imaginary microphone and froze as she saw Sherlock. She ducked her head, gazing downwards at the floor and biting her lip as a pink flush rose in her cheeks in embarrassment.

"Morning Sherlock," she half-smiled sheepishly, throwing him a tiny wave with the spatula. "I was making breakfast for us all before class. Want some?"

"No thank you, Amy." Sherlock couldn't face a cooked breakfast this early in the morning.

"It's Ella," she corrected, slightly offended that he still couldn't remember her name.

"Oh, Amy…wasn't even one of John's girlfriends," Sherlock answered slowly, a crease forming across his brow as he frowned. Where the hell had he gotten Amy from?

Ella gave Sherlock a strange look and turned her attention back to breakfast, humming along under her breath as she scraped the egg onto John's plate.

Just then, as if he had been lured out by the prospects of a warm breakfast, John came staggering into the kitchen, yawning as he tied his dressing gown's belt around his waist. His hair was sticking up wildly and Ella grinned, stepping over to smooth it down and plant a kiss on his lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she grinned, wrapping her arms gently around John's neck.

"Happy Valentine's Day," he murmured back, half-smiling warmly as he put his hands around her waist.

"I made breakfast for you," she nodded towards the counter behind her where there were two plates of food that smelled delicious.

"God, it smells good," John hummed appreciatively.

"And there's plenty to go around. Sherlock didn't want any."

"Hardly surprising," John rolled his eyes. "Well, no need to worry. One of us loves your cooking," he grinned at her.

Ella giggled quietly and slid her hands down to take John's, pulling him over towards the counter.

"Don't let it get cold then," she teased him, handing him a heaped plate.

"Never," he said with mock sincerity, grabbing a knife and fork from the drawer for both of them and taking them and his plate to the table.

In the background, Sherlock took a mug out of the cupboard and set about making himself a cup of tea while trying not to wretch at the sickening display of affection in front of him. He turned his back, pouring hot water into his mug and stirring the teabag effusively. What could be worse than being stuck in the flat with a couple on Valentine's Day as they made googly eyes at each other?

He added a dash of milk to his tea after throwing the teabag out and lifted the mug, taking it to his room. He could get dressed while he let it cool.

"Are you not staying for breakfast?" John called, teasing the other man as he caught him making his way out of the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. He knew Sherlock didn't want to be around that sort of thing and it was funny to watch him trying to escape.

"No, not hungry. I'm going to get dressed," Sherlock announced, knowing exactly what John was doing. He didn't spare another look at the couple as he made his way to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him to try to drown out the music and Ella's singing.

About twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerged again fully dressed and tea drained. He made his way to the bathroom to wash up, left his mug in the kitchen and grabbed his bag, muttering something about needing to get to his lecture a little early when John asked where he was rushing off to. It was obvious that he just didn't want to get stuck in their dorm room with John and Ella but John let it slide. After all, it would be nice to have a morning to themselves.

Once he was outside, Sherlock walked slowly, strolling leisurely through the overcast morning. He had some time to kill anyway. By the time he made it to the lecture hall, he was still five minutes early. He slid in past a group of students who were talking near the doorway and headed to his usual seat. He stopped as he saw a row of Valentine's cards arranged neatly across it and frowned at them, wondering who had taken his seat.

He lifted up a card in one hand and flicked it open to read the name inside, frowning as he read "Dear Sherlock." He read the card and set it back down, picking up the next one which had a picture of a bee on the front and a cheesy pun about "Bee mine." It also had his name on it and another 'secret admirer' asking him to be their Valentine. Sherlock scanned through the row of four cards, each one with a similar message inside, all addressed to him. One of them had even gone so far as to dot all the 'I's with little hearts and another had sprayed their perfume on it; obviously an attempt to make Sherlock subconsciously relate to them next time they spoke. In fact, he knew it had been one of the girls at the door because he had smelt the same perfume as he squeezed past them to get to his desk. He looked back over at the group and caught one of the girls trying to watch him furtively but failing spectacularly. Her eyes widened as he looked at her and she ducked her head, blushing. So much for 'secret' admirer.

Sherlock set his bag down with a heavy sigh and gathered up the cards, about to bundle them inside but curiosity stopped him. He wondered idly how difficult it would be to guess who had sent the rest of the cards. This first one hadn't even been a challenge and he found himself wondering if any of the others would be more difficult or if, as he suspected, they would all be ridiculously easy to guess. After all, ordinary people rarely surprised him. He held one of them out, examining the writing in it. He knew that writing. He had seen it before. But where?

He shut his eyes, scanning through the rooms of his mind palace, searching for the answer. He went through handwritten letters he had received, notes from people who had sat beside him in the library, rushed reminders scrawled untidily on the back of classmates' hands - any samples of writing he could remember seeing in university. Then he realised the answer was sitting right under his nose. He opened his eyes and peered over the shoulder of the girl who sat in front of him, smiling as he caught a glimpse of her notebook. The writing was a perfect match. That was two he had guessed now.

He examined the cards again, setting aside the one riddled with perfume and the one that was from the girl sitting in front of him. That left him with heart-dotted 'I's and another one.

He looked more closely at the one with tiny hearts dotting the 'I's, scrutinising the hand-writing. The hearts were obviously being used to distract attention from the fact that the handwriting was typically male. So a man had written this one and tried to trick Sherlock by drawing hearts to make it look effeminate. He smirked at it. At least this person had tried to be a little clever about it. But sadly, their efforts were in vain. Did they really think they could trick Sherlock with something so transparent? Or was it a test? Did they want to be found?

He glanced around the room again, smiling as he noticed one boy in the back wringing his hands under the desk and refusing to make eye contact with Sherlock. Three for three. This was far too easy.

The last card had been written in a fancy script, filled with lots of swirls and wavy lines in fine black ink. So someone with a more artistic flair. One of the girls sitting alone was currently doodling idly on her file pad; she seemed a strong possibility.

Inconspicuously, Sherlock examined her, deducing all he could about her. The smudge of black ink on her right hand strengthened his case but didn't make it solid. It could be from her note making or more likely, the doodling she was currently lost in. He watched her drawing for a few moments; she was too lost in her head to notice.

Suddenly she stretched and flicked her hair back from her face, revealing a tattoo on her neck in the same font as the card had been written in. He grinned to himself and shook his head; they really made this too easy.

He put all four cards away in his bag and took out his things as their professor entered the room and took his place, standing behind his desk.

Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't completely awful, or at least not all of it. Not when he could get a little fun from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Ella sings is "Accidentally In Love" by Counting Crows, in case anyone was wondering. And obviously, I don't own the rights to the song.


	23. Catch

23: Catch

John's stomach dropped as he finally caught sight of the window with the blind pulled up and the window itself forced open, unhooked from its safety latch.

"Oh Jesus," he groaned, a little out of concern but mostly out of plain annoyance. How could someone so smart be so bloody stupid?

John turned around to find Lestrade already flicking through his phone to call for backup.

"We have to find him before he does something else stupid," he said grimly as he put the phone to his ear and stalked out of the room. John was only too happy to follow, taking out his own phone to call Mary.

Christ knows where Sherlock would go in London. The entire city was his bloody playground; he knew it better than anyone. Who knows how long it could take to find him, especially if Sherlock was determined not to be found?

After Lestrade had explained to the officer about Sherlock's three known bolt holes, he sighed and hung up, turning to John. His face looked worried and fed up all at the same time; his mouth set in a tight, thin line, the almost imperceptible crease in his forehead and the exasperation shining in his eyes. John could empathise. He felt exactly the same. Why did Sherlock have to go and do this? He was in no condition to be climbing out bloody windows and running across London in the middle of the night. Anything could happen to the detective and he wasn't exactly strong enough to do much about it at the moment.

"I'll go see Mycroft, see if we're missing anywhere," Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've got the three I know about covered now so there's not much else we can do. Why don't you go back to Baker Street and I'll meet you there once I've seen his brother?" he suggested tiredly. God, Sherlock was more than a handful. He found himself wondering once again just why they all put up with him. But the man was great even if he wasn't good all the time. They needed him and in a strange parental sort of way, Lestrade did care about him and needed to make sure the curly haired detective was in the best possible hands.

"You want me to just go and sit around and wait for him to come home again?" John asked incredulously, shooting Lestrade a look that said 'we both know that's not going to happen.' He couldn't sit around, waiting anxiously like a mother hen to hear news of his idiotic best friend. It would drive him crazy. He needed to be out there, looking for him, although he really had no idea where to start. Sherlock was an overgrown child with a credit card in a huge city. He could be anywhere he wanted.

"Look, I know," Lestrade began, holding up his hands defensively. "But we've got his known bolt holes covered. I'm going to check if there are any more and we'll get those covered too. Then I'll meet you back at Baker Street. You can't walk up and down every street and alleyway in the city looking for him, John," he pointed out reasonably. "And Baker Street is his home. There is a possibility he could turn up there."

"No, he's too smart for that. He knows Mrs Hudson is always there and he knows we would cover it," John shook his head. "Sherlock's too smart to get caught going home."

"Maybe he isn't trying to hide," Lestrade countered. "Maybe he'd just had enough of the hospital and wanted out. You know him, lying in the same bed, day after day, in the same room, not being able to solve crimes; it was probably driving him insane. Maybe he just wanted to get out, go for a walk, maybe go home for a few hours just for a change of scenery."

John shot him a sceptical look and Lestrade held up his hands defensively again.

"I didn't say it wasn't stupid but it is something that he might do; pretend he's fine and convince himself he didn't need any help to the point where he thought he could sneak out for a few hours."

John hated to admit it but Greg had a point. Sherlock might be dumb enough to think he could sneak back to Baker Street to play his violin or start an experiment or God knows what else. He relented reluctantly and sighed heavily.

"Fine but the minute you're done with Mycroft, you come straight back to Baker Street. And if you hear anything about him, you come back and get me first before you head off anywhere, got it?" John demanded authoritatively.

"Got it," Greg smirked, turning and striding away to his police car. John looked like he was going to tear into Sherlock when he found him and he certainly didn't want to miss that.

Twelve minutes later, Lestrade was back at Baker Street, watching John pace back and forth angrily across the floor.

'He's going to wear a hole in it at this rate,' Greg thought to himself as his eyes followed John up and down the width of the living room again.

John, meanwhile, was racing through a hundred thoughts a minute, jumping from one to the next without much deliberation, trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Why had Sherlock left the hospital? Was it really for a change of scenery? Or was it some idiotic, harebrained scheme to catch a criminal? Wouldn't be unlike Sherlock to get so caught up in a chase that he would ignore all logic over his own needs.

Then another thought struck John, hitting him square in the chest like a tonne of bricks. What if he was chasing down the person who had shot him? It was the only case Sherlock really had at the moment and he must have seen the attempted murderer face to face. John's stomach flipped again anxiously but he kept his face calm and serene.

"He knew who shot him," he said suddenly, surprised himself as he voiced his thoughts. He hadn't meant to say it out loud but now that he had, he was going to have to offer up the rest as an explanation. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade both turned to frown at him and it stopped John mid-pace.

"The bullet wound was here, so he was facing whoever it was," he continued, pointing to his chest as he explained.

"So why not tell us?" Lestrade questioned him, wondering where John was going with this. Then he realised what John must be thinking.

"Because he's tracking them down himself," he said defeatedly, his voice tired. He rubbed his forehead as the implications started flooding into his mind. Of course Sherlock would track down the person who had shot him. The man was never going to leave it alone. He was going to need more back up.

"Or protecting them," John countered, not paying much attention to anyone else in the room. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Protecting the shooter? Why?" Greg asked incredulously. The thought hadn't occurred to him but it didn't make much sense now that John had voiced it.

"Well, protecting someone then. But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?"

John dropped into his armchair exasperatedly but froze as he remembered that it shouldn't be there. Sherlock had moved it to stop it 'blocking his view of the kitchen.' He frowned at it, patting the arms thoughtfully as a twinge of guilt tugged at his stomach. This had nothing to do with tonight, did it?

He missed whatever Lestrade had said to him, humming a "yeah," and hoping it was the right answer. The man seemed satisfied though and he left without John noticing.

"Mrs Hudson, wh-why does Sherlock think that I'll be moving back in here?" he asked suddenly, still frowning at his armchair. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. The reappearance of his chair at the same time as Sherlock's disappearance was more than a coincidence. Sherlock had taught him that in their time together. How did he always put it?

The Universe is rarely so lazy, John.

John didn't hear Mrs Hudson's babbling behind him. He was still trying to figure out why Sherlock had left the hospital and brought his chair back. How were these two seemingly unrelated events linked in the mind of the great consulting detective?

Then he saw it. The crescent moon bottle of perfume that usually adorned his wife's dresser. Claire de la Lune. The perfume Sherlock had smelled in Magnussen's office. Why was it here? Then the pieces began to fit themselves together.

The perfume that Mary wore in Magnussen's office, Sherlock's first word as he woke being his wife's name, the chair appearing back in Baker Street just in case John wanted to move back in, Sherlock protecting the shooter so he didn't hurt John of all people...Christ. It couldn't be.

Mrs Hudson appeared before him again, shoving his phone which was ringing under his nose, sounding slightly annoyed.

"John!" she exclaimed again, breaking through his reverie. "It's Sherlock. Answer it."

John took the phone in a steady hand. His stomach was swirling sickeningly and tying itself in knots over and over but he could deal with it later. Right now, he needed to find where Sherlock is.

"John -" the deep baritone voice started as soon as he answered the phone, but John cut him off sharply.

"Where are you, you bloody idiot? Do you have any idea how many people are out looking for you? Christ, Sherlock, you need to be in hospital, not playing fucking games and climbing out bloody windows!" he snapped, seething. His jaw was clenched angrily as he waited for a response.

"John, there's no time for any of that. I need you to help me catch a criminal," the voice came calmly in return. He didn't even sound fazed and it only made John's fury bubble up more.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Half the bloody police force is out looking for you, making sure you don't cause yourself any more damage by being an idiot and you're out playing bloody detective again! What the hell makes you think I'm going to help you do that? I'm getting you back to hospital," John yelled at him. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone furiously. How stupid and self-conceited could one person be?

"John," Sherlock snapped back, mirroring John's nettled tone. "Neither one of us is safe until we catch them. It has to be done and it has to be now but I need you to be there. You have to see it for yourself."

John laughed sceptically, sick of all the bloody riddles Sherlock was speaking in, but something in the detective's tone let him know Sherlock was serious. There was a softness to it, something not completely Sherlock about it and there was definitely nothing Sherlock about saying he needed John to be there. He sighed heavily, not at all pleased about it but he supposed it was the quickest way to get Sherlock back into the hospital.

"All right, fine," he replied through gritted teeth, not trying to conceal his irritation with the other man. "What do I have to do?"

"Meet me at 23 Leinster Gardens now," Sherlock ordered and hung up the phone without another word.

John growled and slammed his thumb down on the end call button. This had better be bloody worth it. He pushed himself out of his seat, ignoring Mrs Hudson's attempts to find out what was wrong and where Sherlock was. He stalked towards the door of the flat, a litany of emotions all fighting for attention just under the surface. He pushed them all down, determined to ignore all of them and focus on the task at hand. He would go and see what Sherlock had escaped from the hospital to show him. He just prayed that it had nothing to do with the bottle of perfume sitting on the coffee table.


	24. Challenge

24: Challenge

Lestrade had just been on his way home. He had finished his paper work, filed them away on his desk, logged out of his computer and had just scraped his chair back over the worn cyan carpet when his mobile rang. He sighed and pulled it out of his trouser pocket, grabbing his jacket loosely in the other hand as he hit the green button and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Lestrade," he said, a touch of his tiredness edging into his voice. He prayed that it wasn't another case. He had other plans for that night which included a hot shower, the remnants of last night's take away and catching a late night movie.  
He had been on a stake out all evening which included a not insignificant chase on foot through the back alleys of London after a suspect bolted and his burning muscles were reminding him why he usually tried to avoid those. His thighs and calves protested when he stood up, stretching his tired legs and he just wanted to get home to unwind before the next day's work.

"Greg," the demure voice of Mycroft Holmes began indifferently.

"What's he done this time?" Greg sighed long-sufferingly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The only time Mycroft ever called was when his younger brother was up to something that he shouldn't be. Honestly, Lestrade felt like an underpaid babysitter for an overgrown child. The only reason he still did it was because he did in fact like Sherlock. Somewhere deep down. Right now he was struggling to remember why. And why he had said no to Mycroft's offer to pay him for the unofficial job. 

"He hasn't done anything yet."

"But it's a Danger Night?"

There was a brief pause on the other side of the line. Greg could imagine Mycroft leaning back into his office chair, his face full of apathy, which the detective inspector knew was really a mask. Despite the way the two brothers acted towards each other, Mycroft really did care about Sherlock. He wasn't lying when he said he worried about him constantly.

Lestrade had found himself empathising more with the elder brother recently. If Sherlock disappeared for a day or two or didn't answer a call or text, Lestrade found himself wondering if the man was lying half dead somewhere, beaten to a bloody pulp or shot, or whether he had collapsed from not eating or not sleeping or both, or whether he was on the floor of a desolate, decrepit warehouse completely out of it on drugs. The possibilities were endless.

"Yes, I believe it is."

"Right, I'll go and check his flat. It'll probably be more of a challenge after last time. He hid them well and he'll hide them even better now."

"It's a small apartment. Even Sherlock will run out of hiding places."

"Thank God he can't afford anywhere much bigger. The joys of living alone in London work in our favour," Lestrade half-smiled.

"Yes. He's at his apartment now so avoid bringing a team. It will be difficult enough to convince him to open the door for you," Mycroft instructed carefully.

"Got it. I'll call you if I find anything."

Lestrade hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. There went his plans for the evening. Now he was conducting a drugs search in Sherlock's apartment with a team of one while Sherlock most likely hurled abuse at him. Lovely.

**********************************

Lestrade drove straight to the apartment on Old Compton Street over in Soho. There was no time to waste if Sherlock was in a mood like this. It was never good when the elder Holmes suspected his brother was having an aptly named 'Danger Night.'

He rang the doorbell of the apartment but he couldn't hear the ring echoing inside. Sherlock must have pulled it out again. He rolled his eyes and knocked loudly against the wood, calling Sherlock's name.

The door was opened a girl with short blonde hair tamed into a spiky ponytail and dark brown eyes. She was wearing a pair of pink pyjama shorts with cats prancing across them and a loose white t-shirt. She leaned up against the doorframe, grinning as she saw Lestrade.

"Hey, Greg, you here for Sherlock again?"

"Yeah, his brother thinks he's having another one of his nights and I'm going to check on him. I think he pulled his doorbell again," he returned the smile warmly with just a hint of shyness around the edge.

"Wouldn't be like him," Abigail answered sarcastically, pushing herself off the frame to let Lestrade in. "I think he's huffing up there. I caught a glimpse of him when he was coming home and he was in a hoodie and jogging bottoms," she warned him.

"Great," Lestrade said flatly. "I suppose I'd better go and check on him. Thanks, Abbie."

"No problem. If he gives you a hard time, I'll be your backup," she winked before she sauntered back into her own apartment.

Lestrade smiled to himself. He knew Abigail meant well by it but he knew not many people could handle Sherlock normally, never mind in a mood like this. It was destined to be a lone job tonight.

He marched upstairs into Sherlock's flat and was greeted by a stroppy man, curled up into an impossibly tiny ball on his side on the armchair with his hood pulled low. It blocked Lestrade's view of his eyes and for all he knew, Sherlock was asleep, though it didn't seem at all likely. It was more likely that he was being ignored. 

Greg stood five feet away from Sherlock and watched him. The other man didn't stir. Lestrade wondered how he managed to get his long legs curled up into that armchair and a silence dragged out between both men. 

Greg was the first to break it.

"All right, Sherlock, you know the drill. Sit up."

Sherlock continued his philosophy of ignoring Lestrade's presence and didn't respond.

He sighed and stepped closer. He bent down in front of Sherlock, balanced on the balls of his feet. He used one hand placed firmly on the arm of the chair to steady himself. From this position, he could see the icy blue eyes staring straight ahead from underneath the hood. They weren't glassy, which was relieving. Sherlock's eyes were still as alert and eager as ever, even when they stared through Greg like he was ghost. 

But to be certain.

"Sherlock, did you take any?" 

No answer.

"Sherlock, come on. I'm going to have to look around the apartment anyway. Did you take any?"

The frosty blue eyes flickered to meet Lestrade's in a stony glare and Greg's didn't flinch. He stared right back at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow as if to say "Well?"

Sherlock broke the connection to roll his eyes and sigh exasperatedly.

"I'm clean," he seethed through clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade. 

"And the flat?"

"It doesn't matter what I say. You're going to check anyway," he growled.

"It's for your own good."

Sherlock huffed indignantly and readjusted himself in the chair, shifting into a more comfortable position to ignore Lestrade from.

"Sherlock, just tell me where they are. It'll make my job easier and you can get rid of me quicker."

No answer. Perfect.

"All right," Lestrade said tiredly, rocking back on his heels. He straightened himself up and patted the arm of the sofa before turning to face the tiny apartment. It was basic enough. One bedroom at the back, a small kitchen with limited work top space that was barely big enough to house the tiny wooden table that sat in its centre and the two chairs adorning it, a cramped bathroom and the relatively small living room that they were in now, which was technically the same room as the kitchen with no dividing wall between the two spaces. Sherlock was curled up in the only armchair and to his left was the matching two person sofa. There was a small coffee table covered in books and notes and random sheets of paper that must have meant something to the curly haired genius but Lestrade couldn't make head or tail of them and perched in the middle of the table was the skull. His violin case was lying on the floor underneath the windowsill.

He spent the next few hours searching every nook and cranny of the apartment from top to bottom, carefully putting everything back exactly how he found it so Sherlock wouldn't have anything to complain about. He looked everywhere but he didn't find anything. 

"Now will you believe me when I say I'm clean?" Sherlock jeered when Lestrade came back out of his bedroom. 

"Yeah, I get it. I had to check. Mycroft called."

"Mycroft isn't always right."

Greg glanced down at Sherlock who hadn't moved a muscle throughout the entire search. He looked miserable curled in on himself like that, hiding underneath his hood, glaring black murder at the empty space in front of himself. Lestrade knew he shouldn't but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to help Sherlock to get out of this black mood. Even if he didn't have drugs in the flat or in his system, it didn't mean it wasn't still a Danger Night.

He fumbled in his coat pocket until he found the box of cigarettes and his lighter and handed them to Sherlock.

"Here."

Sherlock's eyes trailed up questioningly, looking from the box and lighter to Lestrade. A deep frown etched itself across his forehead and Lestrade smiled warmly in return.

"Go on. You need one tonight."

Slowly, as if they might burn him, Sherlock took the box and the lighter. He slid a cigarette out and gave the box back. Then he flicked the trigger on the lighter and a small orange flame burst into life. He held the end of the cigarette into the flame and took a deep breath, sucking in the taste of tobacco and nicotine. 

The flame went out and Sherlock drew the cigarette away from his lips, blowing out a stream of smoke into his apartment with a sigh of relief. 

Greg smiled at him. He knew he shouldn't be encouraging this either but it was preferable to cocaine. And Sherlock looked so bloody relieved to have one of his vices granted that for tonight, he decided he didn't care. Let the man have a cigarette. God knows Greg was thinking of having one when he went home. He was exhausted and his body was craving the familiar buzz of nicotine tingling through his veins. 

"Why don't you come down to the yard tomorrow?" he suggested as Sherlock drew another breath of smoke. "I've got a case I could use your help on. Think it might be a serial; we've got two bodies, both found the same way. Your kind of thing."

Another silence fell as Sherlock considered, broken only by the sound of him blowing out another stream of smoke that spiralled up towards his ceiling.

"Text me the details."

Greg grinned.

"You got it."


	25. Chances

25: Chances

Red fibres, individually soft and velvety under his fingers. Slightly less forgiving when they worked together, pressing into his cheek. Two distinct shades of red spread out in front of him in high peaks, dotted with some low planes where it had been flattened; one dark and one light. Sherlock didn't bother with giving them proper shades. He could see a fine, long hair arching across some of the strands. It held his attention for a few seconds before his gaze dropped to what appeared to be a biscuit crumb. He wondered what else lay housed beneath all those strands that were woven together but the thought was cut short by a sigh from his elder brother who was sat on the sofa in front of Sherlock.

"Must you do that? I'm trying to watch the news," Mycroft glared down at his younger brother who was lying on his stomach on the red mat that lay in front of the television. His neck was twisted so that he was facing away from the tv, his right cheek pressed into the worn mat and he was effectively staring at Mycroft's shoes, kicking his own feet loudly against the wooden floor. The sound was half drowning out the newscaster, echoing around the room but Sherlock took no notice. It wasn't affecting him.

"Boring," the eight year old groaned, rolling onto his back. He spread his limbs out across the mat like a starfish and Mycroft grimaced. How his brother could lie on it, face down of all things, with all the dust and skin particles, hairs; both human and dog, stones, dirt, crumbs, bacteria and whatever else was festering in that mat no matter how well Mummy had cleaned and hoovered it was beyond him. The very thought repulsed the older boy but Sherlock didn't care.

"The news isn't boring, Sherlock, at least not all of it. You're too stupid to understand it," he replied coolly.

Sherlock propped himself up onto his elbows to glare black murder at Mycroft.

"I'm not stupid!" he snapped. "The news is always the same. Someone always died, there are a few more 'sad' stories and then the weather people come on and get it wrong. We can just look out of a window if we want to know the weather."

"Shut up, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed long-sufferingly and rolled his eyes in exasperation. How had he gotten stuck with a bored eight year old? Sherlock had marched into the room just before the news had started and arranged himself on the floor, picking at the fibres in the mat as the news wore on. That was when the kicking had started.

"I'm not stupid," he repeated vehemently, lowering himself back down on the mat. He stared up at the white expanse of ceiling and started humming Vivaldi's Summer concerto, imagining the dark clouds of the thunder storm in the piece looming above him, crackling with electricity, rumbling softly as the thunder tried to catch up with the lightning.

Mycroft, whose patience was being stretched to its very limits, decided that he had had enough when the humming began. His hopes of peace were virtually non-existent until he either forced Sherlock to leave or found him something to mull over quietly. Neither seemed any more likely than the other but as he recognised the piece his brother was humming, a thought occurred to him and he bit back a smirk.

"Interesting that you picked the storm out of all four seasons," he raised his eyebrows, keeping his eyes fixed on the television. Even at his age, Sherlock was smart enough to tell when most people were lying and Mycroft wanted to make sure that his performance was believable. As he expected, Sherlock didn't respond and the piece continued unabatedly. He fell silent for a few seconds, letting the newscaster's voice fill the air of the living room with some piece about a man who had been murdered and left in his bin overnight. Then he picked up again, keeping his tone soft and his voice low as if he were muttering to himself something that he didn't want his little brother to hear.

"It reminds me of the East Wind."

On cue, the humming stopped and Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows again.

"What's the East Wind?"

Mycroft frowned disapprovingly, keeping the act going perfectly.

"You don't know what the East Wind is? You _must_ be stupid," he stated, shaking his head a little and watching the television again.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "What is it?" he asked as the elder Holmes' eyes trailed languidly back to his little brother.

"The East Wind, brother, is a mysterious force. It circles the earth, seeking out the unworthy and plucks them from the face of the planet, never to be seen again." Mycroft continued as Sherlock looked at him warily. A tiny crease was etched deep into his forehead and the corners of his mouth were down turned but he didn't seem one hundred percent convinced so Mycroft kept talking. "No one knows where they go and no one can hide from it. It chooses its victims from anywhere, at any time but they always know it's coming."

"How?" Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes transfixed on Mycroft. He hadn't moved since Mycroft had begun the story and the older boy had to smother a grin. Really this was too easy.

"It waits for darkness so that the victims cannot see it. Then a wind blows, knocking at the unworthy's window - that sound is where its name comes from. And no one knows exactly what happens next. No one has ever returned to say; the person simply vanishes and is never heard from again."

"You're lying," Sherlock accused without conviction.

"You don't have to believe me, Sherlock. You'll see for yourself when it comes for you," Mycroft shrugged indifferently, turning his attention back to the news. Sherlock gaped at Mycroft for a moment before he scrambled to his feet.

"No, you're lying. It's not real and it's not coming for me!" he said stubbornly as he marched from the room. Mycroft grinned maliciously to himself as the door swung shut after his brother and reclined in the sofa. Finally, a little peace. And now he had a way to keep Sherlock in line. Really, he should have done this years ago.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

No, Mycroft was lying. It wasn't real. It couldn't be. But still Sherlock couldn't shut his eyes for fear that the East Wind might appear in his room and pluck him from his bed and bring him to - to anywhere. To its lair.

An image of the place began to form in Sherlock's mind; a dark, shadowy realm of nothingness, somewhere on this earth but not quite here - like ghosts, he told himself - somewhere where he would fall through blackness for eternity with nothing to see or hear or touch or smell or taste, somewhere he would never escape and his heart thumped loudly against his ribcage. Sherlock took a shaky breath and clutched a hand over his heart, willing it to be silent. If the East Wind was there, surely it could hear his heartbeat. Maybe it followed the sound like a treasure map, marking out the way with the steady beating of his heart until it found him and took him away.

Of course that thought did nothing to help in slowing it down. Nor did the low gust of window barrelling against his window, making the old wooden frame creak and groan which sounded a lot like someone was trying to climb through his window, especially to a terrified eight year old with an over active imagination. Sherlock jumped and his hands wound their way into his duvet, gripping the loose fabric in tight fists. He gazed at the window rigidly, unmoving as he chanted "It's not real, it's not real," over and over in his head. Fear still clung to his chest, constricting it and making him breath heavily but his eyes wouldn't move from the window. Then another gust of wind blew against the glass and that was Sherlock's breaking point.

He threw back his duvet and slid out of his bed. He didn't call out or run - he hadn't managed to convince himself that nothing was there to hear him and he didn't want to alert it to the fact that he was out of his bed in case it followed him. Gingerly, the little boy tiptoed across his room in the dark, expertly avoiding any toys that were scattered over the floor. He pulled his bedroom door open as quietly as he could and slipped out into the hall, shutting it behind him. The hall was more brightly lit by pale moonlight shining through the window of the front door downstairs and Sherlock used it to navigate his way to his parents' room. He slid the bedroom door open a fraction, catching it along the carpet and squeezed through the tiny gap he had created. He crept around to his father's side of the bed and nudged the sleeping man on the shoulder.

"Daddy," he whispered urgently, biting his lip as he waited for the man to wake up. "Daddy!"

"Sherlock?" Mr Holmes yawned, running a hand over his eyes. He scratched the back of his head and hoisted himself onto his elbow. In the darkness, he could barely make out the dark outline of his little boy.

"The East Wind's going to get me," he whispered, sounding more frightened than he meant to. His voice wavered slightly and Mr Holmes reached out to scoop the child up onto the bed. Comfortingly, he ran a hand through the tangled mess of curls and adjusted Sherlock so that he was lying down beside his father. Sherlock curled onto his side, pressing his head against Mr Holmes' chest and his father draped an arm over him reassuringly, protecting his back from whatever it was that Sherlock was afraid of.

"There," he murmured softly when he had the duvet fixed around his son. "Now, tell me more about this East Wind."

"Mycroft said it's a force that makes unworthy people disappear forever and he said it was coming for me and he said that it comes at night and there's a wind and then you disappear and the wind keeps knocking at my window and it's trying to get in," Sherlock explained rapidly, never pausing for a breath as he frantically attempted to explain everything in one long sentence. Mr Holmes lay quietly and listened, determined not to interrupt until Sherlock had said everything that he wanted to say.

"Mycroft told you this, did he?" he asked when Sherlock stopped in his narrative.

"Yes."

"I'll have to have a word with him in the morning," he said sternly, running a hand over Sherlock's back. But for now, it was more important to reassure Sherlock that a mysterious force wasn't after him and Mr Holmes knew exactly how to do that. "Sherlock, I've been alive a lot longer than you have and I have never seen a ghost or known anyone to disappear because of the East Wind," he started slowly, pausing to let it sink in. "So if I've been alive almost five times as long as you and I've never seen it, what do you think the chances are of you seeing it?"

The little boy hesitated, mulling over his father's logic before he answered. "But what if that's because you're worthy and I'm not?"

"Don't you let anyone tell you that you aren't worthy," he said warmly, pressing a loving kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "Mycroft was making it all up to scare you into behaving for him, Sherlock."

"So...I'm not unworthy? And it's not coming for me?" he asked.

"That's right."

"I knew he was lying!" he whispered triumphantly.

"Of course you did, my genius," Mr Holmes smiled sincerely as his little boy yawned. "Now try and get some sleep, okay? You should have been asleep hours ago."

Sherlock nodded mutely against his father's chest, shutting his eyes. He breathed through his nose softly and fell asleep within five minutes, exhaustion and the absence of adrenaline draining him of his ability to stay awake any longer.


	26. 26: Chandelier

 

26: Chandelier

 

"Jesus, I don't know what to make of that. Do you think it's a code?" John asked, scratching his eyebrow as he stood behind Sherlock, glancing over his shoulder at the scraps of paper and photos with a line of stick men scrawled across it in black ink, apparently re-enacting some sort of ritualistic dance. Some of the men waved their hands in the air, some had only one arm to wave and one had none at all, some stood feet apart like soldiers, blanched and tall, others balanced on one leg precariously and one or two seemed stuck mid-air in the middle of a hop. A few of the men held black squares in one hand - flags? - waving them high above their hands as they danced over the white background proudly.

 

"Yes, obvious," Sherlock answered sharply, pressing his fingertips to the bow of his lip. He stared intently at the men, his sapphire eyes locked on the drawing, his focus completely unbroken, or at least it would be if a certain army doctor would shut up and stop asking such dull questions. Of course it was code. It had to be. Why else would someone post Elsie Cubitt the drawings on scraps of paper or draw them on her front door in chalk or crudely over her bedroom windowsill? Someone was trying to get her attention, someone she obviously wanted to ignore. If John couldn't see that, Sherlock didn't hold out much hope for him.

 

"How many has her husband given you now?" John asked as he sank into his chair and lifted a newspaper from the coffee table to his right. He unfolded it and shook it straight, opening it at the third page. The rustling only amplified Sherlock's annoyance at the question. He clenched his jaw harshly, grinding his teeth together and glared up at John, his eyes flashing a stormy blue as they slid into irritated slits. John either didn't see or ignored it.

 

"Six," Sherlock said tightly. "And before you ask, no, I haven't cracked it yet because I can't get five minutes peace to do it."

 

John raised his eyebrows at his newspaper complacently. "Didn't think you'd need five whole minutes with your massive intellect," he answered dryly, a smug smirk twisting the corner of his mouth up.

 

"Shut up," Sherlock growled aggressively, facing the pages again. He closed his eyes, blocking out all the sights and sounds around him until he could be anywhere in the world rather than the living room of Baker Street.

 

In his head, the familiar horizon rose up in front of him; the white limestone palace framed with vast open gardens with the huge oak tree that he had climbed innumerable times since he was eight years old which had never grown once in all that time. It still felt the same under his hands now, smooth and supple, hard and sturdy enough to hold him, as it had when he first imagined it and Sherlock liked that. He liked that he had at least one certainty, point (0,0), somewhere that never changed on him. It was reassuring to know it was there out of some stupid, visceral instinct that he didn't quite understand.

 

The size of the palace itself suggested an affluence that is only obtained through having royalty in your blood or from being the head of a vast multi-national corporation. The exterior suggested an ornate interior; images of tapestries and chandeliers and imposing portraits of powerful people wouldn't be hard to imagine inside such a vast building but Sherlock didn't have time for those frivolities. The inside of his mind palace, while grand in size, was far more practical to his needs.

 

There was a library on the top floor, halfway along the right wing where he could store useful information; huge mahogany shelves stretched out in aisle after aisle of books, sorted into crime, chemistry, psychology, graphology, reference notes for undercover work and any other random information he felt it was necessary to tuck away.

 

In the same wing, a touch further down the corridor were his labs, the centre piece of his palace. Essentially his mind's processor, everything that Sherlock needed to consider ran through here at some point whether it was complex chemical bonds that needed to be sorted for an experiment or a case right down to _'was that a passing glance or are they looking at me?'_ ; every thought went through his lab to be sorted and answered, even if the answer was a simple " _I don't care."_

 

These were the rooms Sherlock headed straight for. He took the stairs two at a time in his excitement, running his fingers over the polished wooden banister. He hitched a right at the top of the stairs and the door to the library swung open for him, calling him into its great depths.

 

Inside, he went to the crime shelf and lifted down a book on coding that may have been useful, grabbing a few other bits and pieces too, including a crime journal filled to bursting with all the information Sherlock had collected on criminals and malicious organisations worldwide. It may not have anything to do with the case in the end but it never hurt to check.

 

With his few books gathered under his arm, Sherlock left the library behind, shutting the door as he made his way into the labs. The room held a remarkable symmetry to the labs in St Bart's - _all labs had that look about them_ , he reminded himself, _it isn't sentiment. Besides it is better to work with the familiar._

 

The room was completely whitewashed, bright, clean and clinical like every good lab should be. The cold metal examination tables shone cruelly in the bright overhead light, chemicals glistened in all their glorious colours along the worktop, calling Sherlock over to play, a Bunsen burner stood firmly in the corner and a microscope sat in the middle of the workbench. It was state of the art, everything Sherlock needed to carry out and process thoughts, ideas and experiments to his high standard of brilliance.

 

He took the photos and scraps of paper with the drawings and his books to the workbench, spreading the books out in an array across the table top as he took his seat gracefully, pulling himself in close to the table. He left a gap of workspace for the pages with the dancing men and spaced them out evenly in front of himself so he could compare them and look for patterns. His eyes scanned the drawings precisely, picking out any variations in the way they were drawn; _a man's hand obviously, confident, aggressive tendencies but that could be seen through his forceful way of communicating with Elsie when she clearly didn't want any part of it, passionate - interesting. Love interest? Possible but not enough data to be conclusive._

 

Sherlock spent hours poring over the drawings, working out combinations and assigning each stick man a letter. As he decoded each one, the task became simpler and simpler for him until he had all of the messages deciphered. As he decoded the last message, his eyes snapped open back in Baker Street. John was no longer in his chair and the newspaper lay abandoned in his place. Judging from the noise in the kitchen, he must have been making dinner for himself.

 

"John!" Sherlock called eagerly, throwing himself out of the wooden table at the window of the living room.

 

"Oh, you talking again? I was making food, do you want some?" John asked, peering around the kitchen door at the detective who was rushing frantically to the door, grinning as he grabbed his long coat and shrugged it over his shoulders.

 

"No time. We have to go. There's going to be a murder," he exclaimed excitedly.

 

"Sherlock, a little less happy?" John suggested, frowning at him. "Where?"

 

"No time. Come on," he repeated impatiently, throwing John's black coat at the man. John caught the coat and by the time he had pulled it out of his sight line, Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs.

 

"Christ," he muttered to himself. "Sherlock! Wait!"

 

The detective was halfway down the fourteen steps to the front door of their flat by the time John's call landed but he didn't stop. John could catch up.

 

He pulled the front door open and ran out into the street, waving his arm at a taxi that was driving down the road towards him. The cabbie, a young Eastern European man with jet black hair and a thin beard to match, pulled into the side of the road, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel; Sherlock hypothesised that it was to whatever music he had playing in the front as his head was bopping and nodding along to a similar beat.

 

John exited Baker Street with his coat hastily slung around himself. He pulled the door shut, subconsciously twisting the knocker to the right the way he always did. He was still adjusting his coat as he climbed into the back of the cab after Sherlock.

 

"Right, where are we going?" he demanded again, looking firmly at Sherlock.

 

"Norfolk."

 

"Is this about those dancing men?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You said murder."

 

"About to be, yes."

 

"Right," John nodded stoically, turning to face out the window to his left. It really was like drawing blood from a stone when it came to getting information from Sherlock, especially if he thought something was obvious.

 

"Got that from one of those messages then?" he asked, turning back to Sherlock again.

 

"The most recent one which is why we're in a hurry," he explained, glancing out the front windscreen at the London traffic, urging it on silently with his mind as if it would have any physical effect on how fast the cars in front of them were driving. He reckoned if anyone had a chance of discovering telekinesis, it was probably him.

 

"What did it say?" John pressed curiously.

 

"Elsie, prepare to meet your maker," Sherlock recited mechanically, continuing to watch the cars in front.

 

"Jesus," John muttered quietly, raising his eyebrows towards his hairline in shock.

 

"Some people think so," Sherlock replied, mentally pushing the silver Mondeo that was crawling along in front.

 

John frowned and turned to Sherlock, his mouth open and his eyes flicking to his right as he repeated that sentence in his head to make sure he hadn't made it up and then sighed and closed his mouth again, facing out of the window. Sherlock didn't notice.

 

A silence drew out between them as the journey dragged on, Sherlock's mind racing ahead like a rocket as he thought of all messages and delightful clues that had been handed to him and John knowing better than trying to talk to Sherlock when he was like this. It would only get him snapped at.

 

Sherlock already had several ideas about the scene they would encounter as they pulled up outside Ridling Thorp House. The old red brick house was cordoned off with streams of yellow tape and police cars, all with dazzling blue lights shining out into the cool autumn air as beacons to any passers by. Which would have been very few in the back end of nowhere they had found themselves in. Police and crime scene investigators poured in and out of the pine green front door like a swarm of locusts, each one occupied with their own task.

 

Sherlock marched up to the tape with John at his side and ducked under, heading straight into the chaos. Most of the activity was centred around the main living room; the concentration of people communed in or just outside the room but with enough room left to allow people to flow freely either in or out.

 

"Hey, you can't be in here. This is a crime scene," one of the men bustling around in a white protective suit said, standing in front of Sherlock and putting a latex-gloved hand on his chest to bar his entry.

 

"Harry Cubitt consulted me on this case, he's my client," Sherlock argued firmly.

 

"What's going on over here? Who's this?"

 

Another man in white protective suit broke away from the gathering just inside the living room who were discussing notes and came over to them.

 

"Sir, he says Mr Cubitt hired him."

 

"Bit hard for him to do that now since he's the reason we're here," the grizzle-haired man raised his eyebrows, looking cynically at Sherlock. "Who'd you say you are?"

 

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," John introduced them both, reaching out a hand towards the detective.

 

"Oh, you're that detective bloke. Lestrade told me about you!" the man exclaimed, stripping the latex glove from his hand and shook John's and then extended his to Sherlock. "Inspector Luke Martin. He says you're bloody good. Not that we need much help on this one. It's pretty open and shut."

 

"Really?" Sherlock asked dryly, arching a single eyebrow at the man as he took his hand back from his grip.

 

"Yeah, domestic murder suicide," Martin answered grimly. "Wife was found shot but alive, unlike her husband who took one to the heart. Gun was found next to her with two bullets missing and her fingerprints all over it as well as the husband's. It's his gun, we found the certificate for it so I reckon she took it, shot him and then herself," he said with a shrug.

 

"Very nice theory Inspector but it doesn't explain the large sum of money in that bag," Sherlock pointed out evenly, nodding behind the man to a black duffel bag on the floor of the room which was overflowing with bundles of fifty and one hundred pound notes.

 

"Wife took it," Martin suggested. "She was going to do a runner but her husband caught her. In the confrontation, she grabs the gun and shoots him and when she realises he's dead, guilt gets the better of her and she shoots herself."

 

"A woman who was about to steal a substantial amount of money from her husband and run away from him feels guilty enough over killing him that she tried to kill herself? Why not call an ambulance? Or if he died instantly, why not take the money and run? Why shoot herself?" Sherlock questioned.

 

"Guilt makes people do crazy things," Martin shrugged again.

 

"That's not crazy, that's stupid," Sherlock quipped. "Have you checked the window?" he asked, stretching his neck up to look over the head of the detective into the crime scene.

 

"Why? What's at the window?" he asked, turning over his shoulder to face back across the room.

 

"Give me five minutes in there and I can show you," Sherlock said daringly, rolling his shoulders back confidently. Inspector Martin sighed heavily and scratched the greying hair at the nape of his neck.

 

"Ah, I don't know. I'm not really supposed to let civilians in, even ones like you."

 

"You said you know Lestrade," John interjected, "so you know we've helped him before. And really Sherlock was already enlisted on this case."

 

"All right, all right, five minutes," he conceded, stepping back out of way to let the two men in. Sherlock strolled calmly in, taking his time in letting his eyes fall over every detail of the scene. Harry Cubitt still lay on the floor, blood staining his dark blue t-shirt, leaking out across the superhero logo across the chest. Against the wall was another splatter of blood, most likely where Elsie was shot. Languidly, Sherlock made his way around the body to the window. He bent down to examine the wooden sill and found a bullet hole splintered into the wood.

 

"That," he said, straightening up and nodding towards the hole, "is what's at the window. Tell me, Inspector, if there are only two bullets missing from the chamber and two bullets found, one in each victim, then where did this come from?" he asked smugly, smirking a little. Inspector Martin hesitated, blinking at the hole.

 

"Someone else was here," Sherlock announced, sweeping towards the door, sending his coat out in a flurry of black fabric behind him like a caped crusader.

 

"Wait, where are you going?" Martin called after him.

 

"Outside."

 

A minute later, Sherlock appeared at the window and disappeared again as he ducked down to inspect the flower bed. Someone had obviously been there; the large stems of the lilies had been trampled on. Investigating a little further among the dirt and the flowers, Sherlock found an empty shell casing and smiled to himself triumphantly. He stood up and rapped the window hard with his knuckles, motioning down to the flowerbed.

 

John, Martin and a handful of the crime scene investigators turned up beside Sherlock a few minutes later, all ready to set themselves upon the new clue.

 

"So you're telling me someone else was here and shot into the living room at them?"

 

"The same guy who was sending Elsie those messages?" John guessed, peering up at Sherlock seriously.

 

"Seems our most likely suspect," Sherlock agreed.

 

"Hold on now, what's all this about messages? What messages?" Martin interjected, waving his hands in front of him as he tried to wrap his head around it.

 

"The ones Elrige's lodger had sent her."

 

"Wait, who? You know who sent them to her?" John cut in, frowning deeply at Sherlock. Just because Sherlock always kept something back from him on a case didn't mean that he ever had to like it.

 

"I do now, yes."

 

"Did you say Elrige? You mean the farmer who lives down the road?"

 

"Yes, he has a lodger, Abe Slaney. He's the one behind this."

 

"How in the hell do you know that?" John exclaimed. "The messages, John. I told you I had cracked them."

 

"And I'm supposed to storm down there and arrest this man based on that?" Martin asked, his tone turning dry as he raised a suspicious eyebrow at the curly-haired detective.

 

"No, you," Sherlock said, sliding his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, "are going to find someone - not an officer - to deliver this to him."

 

As he spoke, he pulled his black moleskin notebook out and a pen and began drawing a row of stick men. He then ripped the page out and handed it to the inspector.

 

"Why?" he asked, gazing baffled at the piece of paper in his hand. "What's that got to do with anything?"

 

"The wife, Elsie, had been receiving lots of these kind of messages - that's why Harry had called in Sherlock," John filled Martin in as Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed exaggeratedly. "So it's a good bet whoever sent those was the third person and the murderer."

 

Sherlock looked absolutely relieved that someone was keeping up with him.

 

"I've written a message as Elsie telling him to meet her later. If he isn't the one who sent the messages, it won't mean anything and he wouldn't show but if he is, and he is, he'll show," Sherlock explained. "That's your proof and you can ask him for the rest."

 

"But Elsie's been shot. Why would he think she wrote it?" John asked.

 

"Because he doesn't know she's been shot."

 

"Right...what?"

 

"Slaney appeared at the window with a gun to get Elsie's attention. He was sick of being ignored and decided to confront her. Harry must have burst in with his gun and shot at Slaney, hence the bullet hole in the window. Slaney returned a shot and killed Harry and made a run for it before the police came. Elsie then took Harry's gun and shot herself which is why his has two missing bullets."

 

"But why would she shoot herself?"

 

"Isn't that what people in love do? Die for each other?" Sherlock scoffed dryly. "She was traumatised at her husband's death and didn't want to live on her own."

 

"Jesus," Martin exhaled deeply, carding a hand through his hair. "Right, I'll get someone to bring it down now."

 

He turned away and went in search of someone back through the crowd.

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Later that evening, Sherlock, John and a small army of police were gathered around the meeting point Sherlock had arranged. The police were concealed along the thin tree line that surrounded the secluded spot while Sherlock and John stood together in the middle, waiting to confront him. As Sherlock had pointed out, it was better for Slaney to meet them than a cop and although there had been a long, drawn out argument over the idea, in the end here they were.

 

John wished that he had his gun to feel the cool metal in his pocket as a comfort, to slide his fingers around the muzzle as reassurance that if something went wrong, at least they had plan b but since he wasn't technically supposed to have it, he couldn't exactly pull it out in front of a band of police anyway. So it was at home, tucked safely away in his sock drawer.

 

Sherlock stood to his left, his chin held high against the cool autumn night air, his blue scarf wrapped around his long neck and his hands pushed deep into his pockets. His eyes were trained on the dark outline of the trees, scanning them for any flicker of movement. Soon a small skinny man pushed his way out into the clearing and froze when he saw Sherlock and John standing there. His face was tanned but even from here in the relative darkness, it was obvious it was the product of a tanning booth rather than from exposure to sunlight. He smiled amiably at the two men, digging his hands into his pockets as he sauntered over towards them, revealing his too white, too straight teeth.

 

"Hey guys," he nodded towards them with a touch of an American accent left in his voice. He tried to walk past them until Sherlock spoke.

 

"Hello, Abe."

 

The man froze, his smile glued to his face as he turned to face Sherlock. His smile melted in seconds into a more natural one but the reaction was more than enough for Sherlock.

 

"Yeah, that's me. I have to say, I can't quite remember your name though, either of you," Slaney said, keeping up his confident act as he smiled apologetically at John.

 

"That would be because you don't know us. We're here on behalf of Elsie Cubitt," John smiled back predatorily, his blue eyes fixed harshly on the other man. Sherlock could see his soldiering instincts kicking back in. John's eyes scanned every movement, every breath the other man took, watching for a sign that he was going to attack and John was poised to leap into action. There was a certain danger and deadliness emanating from John like coming across a starved panther whilst bleeding and armed with no more than a relatively sharp stick and it was obvious Slaney could sense it too. It was wonderful.

 

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, losing the edge of his cool demeanour. "Where's Elsie?"

 

"In hospital with a bullet embedded in her skull," Sherlock told him darkly, narrowing his eyes. Slaney's mouth dropped open and all the colour drained from his falsely tanned face.

 

"She's - but how?"

 

"She shot herself after you killed her husband," Sherlock continued. "She decided she couldn't live without him. But she could live without you, couldn't she? And you couldn't live without her."

 

"No, wait, it wasn't supposed to be - he ambushed me with a fucking gun and -!"

 

"And you shot him."

 

"Who the hell are you anyway?!" Slaney yelled, scowling at Sherlock as the police emerged from the trees with their guns pointed at him.

 

"Sherlock Holmes," he smiled as Slaney was wrangled into a pair of handcuffs by an officer with chestnut hair.

 

"Wait, wait, just tell me is Elsie okay?" Slaney pleaded as the officer guided him towards the police car that had just pulled around as close as it could into the clearing."She's going to live, right?"

 

"Why do you care? You killed her husband and drove the poor woman round the bend in grief," Martin snapped stonily.

 

"Because he loves her," Sherlock interjected.

 

"I do! I love her!" Slaney protested passionately, tugging himself towards Sherlock, forcing the officer restraining him to pull him back again. "I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted her to come back to me like it used to be and she could fall in love with me again until her bloody husband broke in ranting and raving and swinging a gun around. He _shot_ at me! I shot him back in self defence - it's hardly my fault I'm a better shot than that asshole was!"

 

"Like it used to? So you're an ex of Elsie's?" John asked, looking up at the man.

 

"In Chicago, they were lovers for a while until Elsie found out that Mr Slaney here is quite a dangerous criminal," Sherlock filled him in.

 

"But she would have been safe with me. I couldn't let her go so I followed her here but she wouldn't leave that fucking husband of hers like he was any better than I was. I would have treated her like a queen - I didn't mean for her to get hurt."

 

"And Elsie was getting sick of living in fear of her husband finding out about you so she offered you the money that was on the table as a bribe to leave her alone."

 

"Yeah, like money was going to replace my love for her," he snarled. "She didn't get that I loved her so I sent her the messages to tell her and I knew her husband wouldn't be able to read them."

 

"But I could," Sherlock smiled. "Yeah, I still don't know how the hell you managed that."

 

"Don't feed his ego, it's already big enough," John interrupted him, shooting him a look of a long suffering man.

 

"It wasn't that difficult using a substitution to figure it out," Sherlock shrugged. "And once I had the messages, nearly everything else was there besides the entirety of your criminal history but the internet makes that relatively easy to find as well," he grinned.

 

"Right, well, we'd better get you off to the station then," Martin said, gesturing towards the car as the officer led Slaney into the back seat. "Thanks for that one, Lestrade was definitely right about you," he added, turning back to the detective.

 

Sherlock shrugged uncaringly.

 

"It's simple if you know where to look."

 

"If you're done showing off, I'm starving. You pulled me out in the middle of making dinner, remember?" John pointed out. "I'm thinking Chinese on the way home. And no predicting the fortune cookies!"


End file.
